


Drowning in the Sound

by ThoseSadisticTendencies



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bard Newt, Bathing/Washing, Blindfolds, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Bondage, Chains, Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, Crossdressing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Ear Piercings, Espionage, Exhibitionism, Exploitation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Fanart, Gags, Gellert Grindelwald Being Creepy, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Humiliation, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Gellert Grindelwald, Masturbation, Mind Manipulation, Mindfuck, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Possessive Gellert Grindelwald, Rape, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex Club, Slow Burn, Spitroasting, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Torture, Vines, Young Newt Scamander, deep penetration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 126,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThoseSadisticTendencies/pseuds/ThoseSadisticTendencies
Summary: AU - Newt has been travelling around the continent as a bard with a troupe of those he calls friends for 4 years before he seems to get his big break. He meets a mysterious leather-clad stranger in an inn one night when he is hurt and downtrodden. Despite his suspicions, quickly finds himself being drawn into the world of entertaining those with darker tastes from the norm, under the rather too heavy hand of powerful mage, continental madman and overall nefarious schemer Gellert Grindelwald.Beware the tags and keep checking as this goes on.Fic initially inspired by art by the fabulous Potatofu (though don't blame her for this depravity) and beta'd by the lovely Vins
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald/Newt Scamander, Albus Dumbledore/Newt Scamander, Gellert Grindelwald/Newt Scamander, Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Comments: 127
Kudos: 173





	1. One bad night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vindsie (Vins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vins/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet our reluctant hero, his kooky companions, a horse, a fox, a notorious lunatic and a criminal on the run...good luck figuring out which is which cause I sure as hell don't know

The weather in Laria was hot. Hotter, even, than it usually was in the summer months and because of that heat, the patrons of the tavern were a polluted mixture of those fortunate enough to be enjoying the odd autumnal heat – weary yet sated - and those ill-tempered and exhausted from long days toiling in their various professions. Either way, the inn was packed and even though Newt had been preparing himself for the eventual day when Leta’s wedding finally happened and her wealthy new husband whisked her away from their troupe forever, he still found his fingers nervously strumming at the strings of his lute in a discordant manner.

“I’m sorry, Newt,” she had told him pleadingly on the day a week before when she’d left for good, arm in arm with her strikingly handsome fiancé. “But a Viscount’s wife just can’t be seen traipsing about the continent with a bunch of half-penny bards.”

He had not looked her in the eyes and had merely flinched when Tina demanded from his side with fierce, furious, pitying eyes, “Even if one of those ‘half-penny bards’ is your oldest friend?”

Leta had merely repeated her apologies and excuses before leaving in a carriage more ostentatious than anything any of the rest of them could afford. They couldn’t even afford a horse between them, having to scrape up the coin they earned on lodging, food and maintaining their instruments. Newt didn’t begrudge her it. Not really; her goal as a songstress had always been to develop enough of a reputation that she could enchant any crowd without lifting a finger and now, she was to sit at the side of a wealthy, attractive noble for the rest of her life, to start a family and while away her days charming men with her beautiful, lilting voice. He’d known her for so long that he was truly happy that she had found her own happiness, but that didn’t mean he had to like where that left him, Tina and Jacob.

They had been travelling and performing for nearly four years together. Newt and Leta had grown up together, Newt as an adopted servant in her father’s home until she left home at the age of sixteen and took Newt along for the ride. They had picked up Tina and Jacob in an inn soon after; the older man had a knack for performing raucous and cheerful tunes that never failed to stir up an audience. Tina had skill with her flute but her true value to the troupe was in her skill with a bow and dagger. Her petite form and rather dull face disguised keen Salamander eyes and a skilled set of hands. Her wits were quick and her fingers nimble enough to protect the group as they travelled. Jacob was of too kindly a nature to be much use fighting when it came to it, and whilst Newt was by no means as weak as his own slender form might suggest, he didn’t often utilise his own set of… _unique_ gifts. 

Newt had learnt from a very young age that he had an affinity for two things in life – music and creatures. He had found that his voice and the music he played upon his treasured lute always seemed to attract the attention of nearby beasts, of almost any kind and size. Though it had at first been alarming to both him and those around him when wolves, deer, birds, fey and the like came from the woods and mountains surrounding Leta’s family home, he had just as soon learned that they never meant him any harm. The first time he’d done it with anything more dangerous than a sparrow, mouse or rabbit, he’d been sat out in the woods in the depths of the evening, only a little fire glowing before him to abate the dark and he’d been trying out scales on his lute, his then somewhat-clumsy fingers stumbling across the strings of the lute. He’d looked up at the sound of a quiet growl, scrambling up when he saw the hulking form of a wolf looming above him.

He had strung the instrument across his back and prepared to back away when the wolf gave a low whine, dark eyes fixed on him and head cocking to the side and though Newt hadn’t heard _words_ exactly, he had somehow got the feeling that the creature was asking him to continue playing. With slightly trembling hands, he had reached back and drew his lute into his arms again, the bleached wood heavy and cool against his stuttering chest as he gave an experimental strum of a higher note. The wolf’s ear had pricked up and he paused for only a moment before he tried another, humming slightly along with the building melody and had found himself grinning as the wolf settled down before him. His visitor had suddenly appeared more slender as he had seen the dip of the creature’s waist and lithe hind legs, black belly rustling the dry leaves below and the creature’s head settling upon huge, clawed paws. His – for Newt had got the feeling that the wolf was most definitely male – eyes had remained open however as they lay entranced upon the young boy with the head of copper curls and the bright sea-stained eyes.

The encounter had stayed with Newt for years after – not only for the discovery of his…aptitude with even dangerous animals but for the warning that he had gotten from it too. One of the groundsmen had come out to find out who had lit a fire in the forest at night and had chased the wolf off with loud shouts and the aggressive waving of a lit torch. The poor wolf had run, whimpering, scared and singed into the forest and though Newt had tried to follow it, he had been caught around the chest by the groundsman – a kind though gruff man by the name of Lecksi – and the grizzled man had told him that wolves were not for making pets of. Newt, at the age of eight, had not understood why Lecksi had looked at him so oddly when he’d replied that he needed to help his new friend and that the wolf had just been sitting with him while he sang. Now, however, nearly twelve years later, Newt knew better than to flaunt the effect he had on creatures before people.

Leta, Tina and Jacob understood. Leta had been around long enough to see the way he interacted with creatures – as friends and equals – and Tina and Jacob had had occasion to learn of it on their travels. Their journeys had been safer than most as any nearby creatures either left them be as Newt spoke or sang to them, or else decided to follow. It was a surprisingly useful thing to have a flock of Jabberjays or Fwoopers let them know of any potential threats up ahead such as other travellers, soldiers, brigands or even more natural obstacles like fallen trees or landslides. Or, sometimes, dangerous crossings over rivers that were home to less friendly creatures that not even Newt’s charm with creatures could calm. For some reason, part-human or humanoid creatures such as Merfolk, Ilkir, Vampires, Werewolves, Goblins, House-elves and halflings didn’t seem to feel Newt’s ability like their full-creature brethren did and often took offence to it. Newt had long since concluded that it was the same thing that made humans dislike him too, though he still wasn’t entirely sure what it was. 

Whatever that particular little something about him that rubbed people up the wrong was, seemed to be kicking in now. The barkeep – one they had played for before – seemed less than keen to let them play now that Leta was no longer their header and star attraction. Admittedly, her beautiful face, golden-amber skin, large dark, doe-like eyes and admirably slender though pronounced curves wrapped in flimsy gauze and silk were a worthy source of attention but Tina had assured Newt, if a little awkwardly, that he had a handsome enough face and strong enough voice that he should do just fine. As he picked a hole through his old blue cloak and looked around at the generally disinterested or irritable faces, he wasn’t so sure.

“You’ll do great, Newt,” Jacob beamed at him, clapping him on his back and shifting his drum where it hung on a strap at his hip. “You sound fantastic when you’re on the road with us – why’d this be any different?”

Newt smiled bashfully, ducking his head to focus on needlessly retuning his lute as he answered, “That’s different, the only ones there are creatures and _they_ like my voice whether it's in tune or not. I haven’t got what Leta has,” his eyes flickered with shadows as his gaze dropped even lower, taking in his own battered boots. “I can't _do_ what she does and I don’t want us chased out of town because I mess up.”

“Not like we haven’t had to run for the hills afore, Newt,” Tina chipped in, smiling encouragingly if a little grimly, her boy-cut dark hair framing her worried face in the firelight flatteringly. “Sure, Leta was pretty and could draw in the louts but your voice can calm a raging, rabid ice-bear. I think you can manage a tavern of drunk idiots, can’t you?”

Newt snorted a little and nodded, conceding her point if just a little as he stood, readjusting his lute with slightly squared shoulders, “S’pose so, let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

“You betcha!” Jacob smiled broadly, leading the way through the crowded tavern over to the small makeshift performance area by the empty hearth. Tina squeezed Newt’s arm encouragingly and took her place to his left as Jacob did his usually admirable job of gaining the crowd’s attention.

“Ladies and gents, commoners and I damn well hope no nobles!” the call was received with a roar of approval from the majority of the working folk in the room as they raised jugs and tankards, slopping drink everywhere in a way that made Newt cringe. “I’m sure ya’ll know me by reputation as Jakub Paczki!” A general roar from the room, both by the man’s naturally likeable demeanour as a person and entertainer and for his family’s reputation for making the best baked goods to ever come out of the neighbouring kingdom of Peorden. Ones that currently sat upon the plates of several patrons in fact. 

“It’s my pleasure this fine evenin’ to introduce the talents of Porpentina the Gold!” A grand gesture toward Tina that got a few shouts and scattered wolf-whistles as Tina winked at them, her signature black and gold-trimmed skin-tight doublet and leggings catching the eyes of many as they accentuated her deep eyes, dark, boyish hair, the circlet of woven straw upon her brow and the daggers glinting at her hips. Like Jacob, she went by another name when performing simply so that she might have a life outside of the troupe, as all of them, apart from Leta, did.

“And, most importantly, of my dear friend, our liaison of the lute and now our very own Little Lark!” Newt almost snorted at the nickname but the sick feeling in his stomach at having too many eyes on him melted away any sense of humour he may’ve had as all attention went to him. Jacob stepped back to allow Newt to begin. He breathed in deeply, seeking out the sounds of nearby creatures to calm him as he often did – a supernatural ability to hear further than most simply when he focussed on the beasts he knew to be there. A sense. He heard mice skittering underneath the floorboards, the swallows and owls in trees nearby. A horse and a goat in the pen outside. All calm, sleepy and docile. Well, except for the owl – the snowy bird swooped the sky, searching out his next meal, likely the mice. 

Newt played a few tentative chords before he began to sing,

_“The lily lunged love, she flew away from her perch, desperately needless and heedless of the needles of hurt.”_

His eyes stung as he focussed on the words, fingers neglecting strings a little as he let the room drop away and Leta – his one true long-term friend – her face flashed before his eyes but on he went.

_“She rode on the sky, her callous goodbye, it ate away, the resolve of anything that stay-”_

“Cheer the fuck up, mate! There’s always another bird right ‘round the corner!” the roar of one man was met with a rumble of laughter and Newt faltered, his fingers twanging unpleasantly on the strings and he sucked in breaths deep and hard, spots of white dancing before his eyes before he grit his teeth and looked back to Tina and Jacob. He gave a slight nod, indicating that they should try another song, the next they had planned anyway and they quickly nodded and struck up a new melody. A song that Newt had written long ago and played many a time on the road. They all knew it well. 

_“I'll be sleeping under stars tonight, not sure exactly where I'll be, maybe underneath the pale moonlight or maybe underneath that tree…”_

His eyes drifted almost shut, the words and chords flowing from his throat and fingers like smoke from a forest fire, the very image of which was burned behind his lids along with the event itself. The calling of terrified creatures fleeing flames as he ran too, guiding them to safety, fleeing the fire himself but heading to open water, diving…diving…drowning…

_“Black smoke choking the night, a warning, a warning…_

_Black smoke, writing in the sky tonight, everything will be alright_

_If you let go_

_Humans_

_All gathered in the place tonight, everything will be alright, if you let go-”_

Newt was broken out of a near trance of imagining that he was alone, that the chords and beat struck out behind him were in his head and that he was calling out to the creatures of a quiet forest night alone. He was broken out of that trance by an empty jug striking the side of his head: he didn’t cry out, but he did jerk back with a gasp, hand flying to the area of fire blooming over his left brow. His trembling fingers came away red with blood and he stumbled back as another roar of laughter and another projectile followed, this time in the form of a half-eaten lump of stale bread that struck Tina and knocked her flute from her fingers. 

“Get the big-titted bitch back, why don’t ya?”

“Yeah, where’s the hot one?”

“Yeah, she was much more fun!”

“Stick a sock in it, you mincing little prick!” 

“Buck up, bird boy!

A few mocking howls were added and one man lobbed a full tankard this time, the metal striking Newt on the hand, gashing it and soaking his already-shabby clothing with sticky ale. He felt a hand fist in the back of his tunic and cloak and jolted around to see Tina, her face set grimly and jaw clenched as she pulled him bodily toward the door to the tavern as more patrons seemed to decide that throwing things at the bards looked fun. He was caught by his cloak by someone as he passed, causing him to slip, falling face-first into the messy, debris-strewn floor of the tavern as his hands were too preoccupied with protecting his lute and slipping in puddles of ale to stop the fall. Newt gasped as the pain in his face and at his hairline flared hotter and sharper than before, something slicing painfully into his flesh but he shook it off and scrambled up with the tug of Tina and Jacob’s hands on him, going with the relentless pull to get out.

Newt took the hint and hastened his stumbling steps, looking around as if in hope for a friendly face: most were either too drunk to care or keeping to their own business. There was an odd doe-eyed maiden or motherly looking woman who was giving them a sympathetic eye but not doing much about it, the only eyes that caught his attention was a set of mismatched ones. One dark and the other a blue so light it looked silver. The man they belonged to was sat at the bar and as Newt ducked out of the tavern, shielded partially by Tina and Jacob on either side, he could’ve sworn he saw a flash of pity in those eerie, odd eyes.

The young bard didn’t catch a good look before they were outside, however, dodging away from more grabbing hands and out onto the dusty road. They jogged for a while before slowing to a brisk walk, faces shining with sweat even in the relatively cooler evening air, and began to glance at one another. Or at least Tina and Jacob did, Newt just stared at the ground, head and hand throbbing and stinging, eyes boring pathways in the dirt and the creatures nearby staying well clear as they sensed the young bard’s agitation. His abject humiliation.

“Well,” Jacob started with a big faux grin, “probably just a tough crowd, huh? It's hot and they’re all a bit rowdier than usual, eh? I’m sure that the next one’ll be better.”

“Oh, come on Jacob, don’t start with all that crap,” Tina’s voice was dull and dejected and it just made shame curl tighter in his gut. He’d failed. He’d messed it up for all of them. He was the problem – not them. They’d be better off without him.

“It could’ve been worse, they-”

“Worse? How could it’ve been worse?! Just look at Newt!” Tina rounded on him, stepping nimbly in front of him and when he tried to step around her, she followed, stare resolute. He sighed and brought his gaze up to her chin level, not wanting to see the disappointment or pity in her big brown eyes. “Newt, stop, we need to sort you out before we go any further,” she looked to Jacob, “Hand me my bag, will you?”

Jacob frowned, “Why’d you think I had it? You gave it to Newt last, while we were in the tavern.”

Newt closed his eyes and groaned, “Bugger, I’m sorry, Tina, I left it at the bar.” He ducked his head again, hand going up to sweep some blood, pottery and ale out of his hair, palm coming back sticky and stinging as he added, “I forgot about it…I was nervous and-”

“It’s alright, I guess we’ll have to go back and get it then,” Tina sighed, and Newt shook his head jerkily, eyes alighting upon the older women’s briefly before he interjected, stripping off his lute and pushing it into her arms.

“No, it's alright, I’ll get it,” he was already walking away, quicker than either of their shorter legs could easily follow and he didn’t hear them try, only speeding himself up as they called to him.

“No, Newt, come back!”

“Bad idea, buddy!”

“It's fine! I’ll meet you at the next crossroads! I’ll be quicker on my own,” he called back without looking around before muttering to himself, “They only take offence to me when I try singing, after all.”

Despite the dizziness, the ache in his head and oppressive heat, he managed to make it to the lone inn without incident, dodging into the stables as he saw a group of revellers exiting. Newt spotted a back door that he could get back in by and beelined to it before pausing by the solitary horse stabled there. The one he had sensed earlier. She was a sleek black mare, tall – perhaps fifteen hands across - with a gleaming dark coat and still saddled with rich-looking leather and silver buckles. Either a careless rider or one that would be returning soon, Newt found himself lingering by the steed anyway, hand reaching out to offer one of the customary carrot chunks he kept about his person when food wasn’t scarce so that he might treat any new friends he made.

The tiny green head and beady black eyes of the Bowtruckle in his inner pocket poked out, reaching for the morsel with annoyance. Pickett didn’t really want the carrot but didn’t appreciate having his climbing toys taken away from him and blew a rude raspberry at the young bard who tutted admonishingly and offered a comforting finger to the Bowtruckle before turning his attention back to the fussing horse. She was beautiful, in the prime peak of health and clearly cared for if her shining coat and contented hay munching was anything to go by. He offered her the carrot all the same and she sniffed it briefly before licking it up from his palm.

She was talking to him as any other would now and he smiled softly, momentarily forgetting his task as he stroked a careful hand over her nose and picked a stray bit of hay from her mane before letting her snuffle it off his hand.

“You’re treated well, I hope?”

The horse gave him an impression of being pushed hard, of running fast and hard in pursuit and flight but then a following impression of being treated, rested and adored by an older man. White-blonde hair shining, dark cloak flowing in the streamline of her flight. Handsome. Cultured. Older. Newt smiled, scratching a spot behind her ear that she couldn’t reach and murmuring. 

“Your master’s a good one, then?”

“I certainly like to think so.”

Newt gasped, spinning on his heel and almost stumbling as dizziness momentarily overwhelmed him, his head throbbing harder than ever and his heartrate hammering like a rabbit’s when the wolf wanders by. When he blinked himself back to something near normal his eyes focussed upon the same clear cut, pale and striking face that she had just shown him. The owner. White-blonde hair just past the ear, colour stained a bit dirty by either road dust or long times spent indoors out of the sun – as his complexion might suggest. Dark cloak mostly hiding his attire and black boots riding to his knees below it. Those eyes though, the same he’d seen watching him in sympathy from the bar. One dark, almost black. The other a clear silver tone.

Like two sides of the moon playing across the man’s face. Full and eclipsed. He could almost see, too, the slight ring of ruddy orange glow surrounding the dark eye. Just like an eclipse. It was mesmerising…and a little unnerving.

“Are you alright, little bird?” the man asked in a low, smooth voice that had a twinge of an accent to it – it might have been Terranic – but Newt was more preoccupied at that moment with fumbling up words together in his jumbled mind to make a response. The man was looking at him with concern creasing his brows now – likely worrying for Newt’s sanity and what this dumbstruck idiot was doing with his horse. Newt stepped away quickly, almost stumbling over his own feet as he edged away from the horse and her rider both.

“I, uh, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to offend-”

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” the man said, apparent amusement pulling at one corner of his lips as one brow arched sceptically. “You don’t seem the sort to seek out notice nor trouble, despite your profession. Yet it seems that you’re also the sort that continually finds it nonetheless.”

Newt huffed a half-laugh, “Sounds about right.” He felt a stab of pain go through his chest at the thought of exactly how true the words were – more so than this man could likely have guessed, certainly. “You might try telling that lot in there that I didn’t mean any offence, I rather doubt they’d listen to me after all that.”

“Ignorant fools,” the man scoffed and Newt shifted on his feet, eyes darting toward the door to the tavern behind his conversant. The man seemed to notice and stepped slightly aside but also that bit closer. His eyes darted up to Newt’s brow and frown lines creased handsome features further, “Are you quite sure you’re alright?”

Newt nodded hastily and the brow shot up higher in disbelief, “Call me old-fashioned but I’m of the strong belief that having pottery lodged in one’s face is not usually classed as the pinnacle of health.”

Newt reached up a hand to his throbbing head, probing about his hairline, feeling startled and hissing in pain when he indeed found sharp fragments poking out – not bone fragments, surely? He wouldn’t be standing if they were. No, it seemed that the painful protrusions were shards of shattered jug, sticky with caked blood, that must’ve lodged in when he fell. He instinctively tried to pull them out only to be stopped mid-movement as a cool hand closed around his wrist and firmly pulled his away. He looked up, startled, to see the man standing much closer, brows furrowed as he inspected the wound, not releasing Newt’s wrist even as he brought his other hand up to lightly brush over the blood trailing down Newt’s face. He susurrated an almost silent whimper at the movement and tried to step back only to find the warm flank of the horse blocking him.

“Um, it’s alright, really, I only came back here to collect my friend’s things so she could take care of this herself. N-no need to bother yourself.”

“It’s no bother, little bird, and even if it were, I think I could still spare the time to save your pretty face from some crude stitching.”

Newt flushed, head ducking again but this time accidentally pressing his face further into the man's grip, “No, really, I-”

“Come inside with me and I shall take care of your injuries, collect your friend’s belongings and ensure that you get out of here safely before morning,” the man fixed him with a stern look, “I would not feel I had done my duty as a protector of this land unless I did this one small thing for one of the finest minstrels I have ever heard.”

Newt was quite sure that the man must feel his hand burning against Newt’s fired face. He was also sure that the man must be playing some sort of joke on him that would result in nothing particularly pleasant should he play along. The mare beside him reacted to his anxiety and stepped away, giving Newt enough room to do the same and when the man’s hand did not release Newt, she nickered irritably and stomped warningly at the ground near his black-booted feet. The man stepped away, alarmed, mismatched eyes flickering rapidly between horse and boy before slowly relinquishing his grip and standing aside.

“Pardon me,” Newt muttered as he rushed past and back into the inn, feeling the man’s eyes boring into the back of his head and feeling relief sweep over him as the older man did not follow. He kept his head down as he made his way over to the bar where he had been sitting, inwardly cringing as he saw the seats now occupied by a group of farmhands well into their cups and didn’t see the familiar leather pack anywhere nearby. Newt managed to wriggle his way through the crowd until he reached the front of the bar, trying to catch the attention of the surly barkeep as he tried to calm his breathing.

He found himself glancing repeatedly over his shoulder for the man with the mismatched eyes, wondering just what it was that the stranger had wanted from him but not being able to come up with anything that was particularly comforting. He’d said something about a duty to protect the people of the land, hadn’t he? But then, Newt wasn’t a local. Hailing from Leta’s family home on the borders of the Veridian Mountains, he wasn’t sure if any sense of duty the man had would extend that far. But then again, Newt wasn’t exactly sure what that duty was anyway – he hadn’t seemed like a knight, not dressed like one certainly, and nothing as brutish as the ones Newt had had the misfortune to meet. Maybe a lord or something of the like, then? But no, he was travelling alone and despite his superior demeanour and foreign twang, that classification didn’t quite seem to fit him either.

Newt tried to push it from his mind as he finally, awkwardly caught the barkeep’s dull gaze and managed to urge him over, “Uh, yes, hello, we, um, my friends and I-…we left a bag here and I was wondering if you’d seen it at all?”

“You and your friends just caused a damn great mess for me to clean up,” the barman growled, scowling at Newt who cringed a little but persisted. It was the least he could do for Tina to get her belongings back after he’d left them here and forced them all to flee. 

“Yes, and I’m very sorry for that but if you helped me get my friend’s things then I’ll be out of your hair much quicker and there won’t be anymore trouble or mess for you to clear up,” he tried to give his best winning smile but it must’ve fallen very flat indeed as the man made a disgusted noise, throwing his bar-rag away and levelling an accusatory finger at Newt.

“If you and your lot promise not to come back around here causing trouble again or trying to foist your shitty music on us then I’ll point you towards that smarmy bastard who nabbed your friend’s things, got it?”

Newt blinked, astonished that anyone had tried to take Tina’s meagre belongings but nodding hastily all the same, “No, no, of course not, we won’t come back here again.” 

He grunted and jabbed a thumb upstairs, “Third door down. The bloke was on his way out but if you ask nice you might catch him in a generous mood.”

Newt cringed further and nodded his thanks before heading to the stairs, the hood of his dusty blue cloak still pulled up over his head to hide his burning, bleeding face from the crowd. The last thing he needed was to draw more attention. He made his way as quietly as he could up the rickety stairs, heading to the directed door and taking in a deep breath before knocking. He waited, heart thumping in his chest and head pounding with every beat. Newt was swaying slightly on his feet now, the blow to the head, the run and the general stress of the evening not helping matters as his natural nervousness compelled him to knock again, this time more rapidly, knuckles faltering on the wood as the door swung open.

“Hello?” Newt called, stepping forward and ducking his hooded head into the room only to be promptly grabbed by the scruff of his cloak and slammed into the nearest wall with a muscular forearm pressing firmly against his throat.

A hand clapped over his mouth before he could shout or say another word and he stared wide-eyed and shocked at the dark visage of an elaborate metal mask covering a man's face. It took him a few moments to properly focus on the mask at all, the features and flash of skin that should have been recognisable around and underneath the mask somehow an indefinable blur. It was like trying to look at heat haze and Newt found himself giving up quite quickly despite the closeness of the other’s face to his own. The man’s dark hood was pulled down to obscure his hair and the edges of his face, leaving only burning brown eyes to focus upon which narrowed in apparent surprise as Newt looked into them. His assailant’s body was pressing him into the wall, a burly form clad all in black; dirt spattering the boots, trousers and hem of the cloak. Newt stayed very still, trying to keep his breathing steady through his nose as his mouth was blocked and the even pressure on his throat continued, he didn’t struggle, merely taking in his attacker with wide, tense eyes. 

The brown eyes bored into him with an unmatched intensity that set something writhing in Newt’s gut and had the cooling sweat on his skin feel like it was tingling to life as something odd thrummed through him. A warmth and tightness to his skin and a sped thumping in his chest. They stayed like that for what may have been nearly a minute before the man’s eyes softened a fraction and he spoke in a gravelly, heavily Riskian tone.

“If I let go of you will you promise not to start yelling? I can and will hurt you if you give me a reason to.”

Newt considered it a moment before bobbing a nod and the hand released its death grip on his jaw. He swallowed and pressed his lips together briefly before venturing, “D-didn’t mean to intrude, but I was sent your way by the barman.”

A dark brow arched and heated brown eyes flashed in disbelief, “Oh, were you now? And how could that be, considering no one knows I’m here?”

Newt blinked, one foot shifting slightly as the dizziness struck again, trying desperately to keep himself upright and not to collapse upon this aggressive stranger. “Well, I was told to come to this room and-”

“Not to find me, then?” the man pressed, gaze firm and fierce. 

“No?” Newt eked out, almost questioning himself and the man surprised him further by snorting.

“You don’t seem too sure of that,” he observed calmly, though with a slight lessening of the pressure his forearm was exerting on Newt’s throat.

Newt shook out a low laugh, “I honestly don’t know why he sent me up here unless he was hoping you’d finish me off where the crowd downstairs failed.”

The man’s dark eyes took in the bleeding marks and stinging wounds on his forehead as if for the first time, narrowing slightly before flicking back down to try to meet Newt’s. “You’re that bard. The one who was playing earlier.”

Newt flushed a little but lifted his chin just a fraction, “Yeah, that’s me. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather get going unless you happen to be the one who stole my friend’s pack.”

The man stepped back, releasing Newt, though still standing near enough to pose a significant obstacle between him and the door. Newt breathed in heavily, eyes flitting about the simply decorated room. He saw Tina’s pack resting upon the bed, the contents spread out across the covers and his own eyes narrowed, going back to take in his aggressor gaugingly, “You _did_ steal it.” 

The man’s eyes flashed dangerously, “Your _friend_ is a dangerous man, bard; he isn’t one to cavort with lightly. I’d advise that you get out of here if you know what’s good for you.”

“What?” Newt blurted, eyes going back to the pack again, asserting that it was indeed hers and feeling angrier and more confused when he saw her spare gold doublet and medicine kit lying there beside it. “I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding – that pack there is my friend Tina’s, she left it by the bar and I came back to collect it.”

A dark look flashed across the man’s eyes and a low growl came from under the metal mask, where the blurred shape of what must’ve been lips snarled “Are you sure?”

Newt nodded, baffled. 

“Damnit!”

“Wha-”

“I haven’t got time for this,” the man hissed under his breath, heading toward the window and slinging a leg over the sill before glancing back, a conflicted expression tainting his dark eyes. “Please, bard, do me a favour and keep your mouth shut about all of this. Go along your way, take your friend’s pack to her and don’t mention me to anyone.” He ducked his head out of the window, checking the ground below it seemed before he looked back one last time, “And stay away from Grindelwald. Nothing good will come of being around a man like that, trust me.”

With that, he jumped from the window in a billow of black cloak that -- had Newt not been staring confused and dumb after him -- he might’ve thought rather impressive, if a little standoffish. Newt sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair, wincing as more shards stabbed at his hand – _I mean, honestly! How many bits of jug could have lodged themselves into him?! It was bloody ridiculous. –_ and then went about repacking Tina’s belongings, not finding anything particularly amiss and wondering distantly why the thief had given it back. As grim a thought as it was, the man could’ve easily broken his neck and carried along his merry way with the stolen bag, but no, instead, he had let Newt live, let him keep what he came for and even given him advice of sorts. Though who Grindelwald was and why this thief thought he’d be a problem for Newt, he had no idea. However, as he headed out the door and back toward the stairs, he abruptly ran into the answer to both conundrums, which suddenly clicked in his head with unnerving clarity.

The man with the mismatched eyes was coming up the steps toward him, gaze fierce and hand on the pommel of the sword that had been strapped to the side of his horse. Newt gulped, backtracking but finding himself frozen as the man threw out a hand toward him, palm out and fingers curled just slightly inward. _When had his day got so bad so quickly?_

His panic must have shown on his face despite the frozen state of the rest of his body and the spell – or whatever else in all the seven hells it could be – released him and he staggered sideways. The flaxen-haired man came forward, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder, “Sorry there, little bird, I didn’t recognise you,” he offered a slight grimace, though it too was traced with amusement. “I have a little of the gift myself and it tends to act rather instinctively but don’t fret, it shan’t be used against you again.” 

Newt ducked his head in a small nod, overwhelmed and wanting very desperately just to leave this inn that seemed to be the epicentre of a number of needlessly complicated things that would’ve made even the most convolution-prone playwright groan.

The ‘gift’ the man was referring to was a rare ability indeed, one that only appeared in a handful of people in the world nowadays – most of them power-crazy megalomaniacs or else those with barely a trace of it enough to sell spells and barely magic tonics that hardly did better than the regular kind did. He’d met a few on his travels but none that had a gift that worked ‘instinctively’ as this man claimed it to be. It unnerved him greatly to think that the power had been exerted upon him so easily and inescapably until the stranger had decided that he simply wasn’t the threat he thought he was. People never saw Newt as a threat. And with good reason for most of the time…unless there were creatures about, of course.

Pickett was chirruping agitatedly in the folds of his hood, gripping onto Newt’s ear with stick-like fingers and demanding in so many words what was going on and why his nap time was being interrupted by so much hubbub and unnaturalness. He was tempted to laugh a little at the sleepy grumblings but was a little preoccupied with the stern, eerie gaze that was measuring him – Newt couldn’t think of the last time so many strangers had shown him this much interest. He decided very quickly that he didn’t like it.

The young bard stepped around the older man and went to continue his way down the stairs but the man halted him on the second step with words alone, “I see you let yourself into my room and felt no concern with causing offence this time either.”

“Y-your room?” Newt half-stuttered, still backing towards the stairs slowly and the man – Grindelwald, he was starting to suspect – regarded him patiently.

“Yes, though not for much longer as I am forced to continue my pursuit now,” his pale brows furrowed. “Though I feel I should apologise, I have been dreadfully discourteous with you this evening,” he offered a thin smile, “Gellert Grindelwald, at your service.”

Newt winced a little as his foot snagged a creaky step and he came to a halt a step above the landing, “A pleasure.”

Blonde brows rose higher and Newt found himself caught in the moonglow of the eyes they rested above as man impelled, “And you are? I highly doubt that the name you were introduced by is either your true one or of your volition.”

“Newton,” the bard blurted, somehow finding himself unable to look away from those eerie mismatched eyes, the silver-blue one seeming to almost burn in the dim corridor and stairwell as the man descended to stand only a step above him.

“No family name?” he wheedled.

“None that’s my own,” again, the words were pulled from Newt and he felt frozen in a different way from before, like a deer standing before a predator in the moment before flight.

“You have one that isn’t?” Grindelwald’s tone was teasing but Newt felt compelled beyond reason to answer honestly and instantly again. Something was very wrong here. 

“Lestrange.”

“Lestrange,” Grindelwald rolled the name over in his mouth, eyes alighting further though now with consideration, “And what claim have you on a bloodline as old and powerful as that, young one?”

“Leta…” Newt said simply, breathing it out into the air like poison. 

“Ah, the lovely lady that your audience seemed so foolishly keen for the return of?”

Newt nodded numbly, head heavy and filled with fog. He supposed distantly that it was just his probable concussion that was making him so fuzzy and suggestable. 

“I have heard the Lady Lestrange and her crooning before, and while she certainly has her charms…you have more than she ever will.”

Newt’s flush was burning the very tips of his ears now, his head swimming for so many reasons. Grindelwald’s hand tipped up his chin, eyes flitting over him searchingly and Newt suddenly regained the ability to move, think and breathe properly again. He gasped in a breath and stumbled back a step, only saved from falling back down the stairs by a swift hand that gripped his arm. 

“Please, I should really get going, I appreciate your…interest-” he swallowed spasmodically, “but I would rather get back to my friends. They’re waiting for me and I’d rather they didn’t have to come looking for me in a tavern of people who aren’t particularly appreciative of our presence here.”

The man hummed thoughtfully, releasing Newt slowly, mismatched eyes still taking in every inch of him from his dishevelled mop of copper curls, sea-stained eyes, dusty blue cloak, overlarge white shirt and high-waisted, frayed-laced trousers that didn’t quite match the shade of his cloak. He suddenly felt self-conscious of how battered and frayed his clothes were in comparison to the low cut leather shirt, leggings and boots that the older man wore underneath his dark cloak – dressed with a dramatic flair and an air of quality that was in no way diminished by the dust that adorned him.

“Have you ever considered working independently of your current companions, Newton?”

Newt shifted on his feet, “Uh, no, I can’t say I have. They’re my friends and I don’t think that I’d do particularly well on my own – tonight proved that.”

Grindelwald snorted, though his expression appeared more like the sympathetic one Newt had seen earlier as he’d fled the inn, “Don’t feel discouraged by their idiocy, little bird, you merely need to find an image and setting that better suits you.” He tilted his head, “To be somewhere where your audience would be more appreciative of your beauty and gifts.”

Newt’s cheeks fired up again but he lifted his chin, almost meeting the older man’s eyes, tired, more than a little uncomfortable and just wanting to be camped out with his friends in the woods. He could hear the creatures calling to him again, sensing his distress but too far to do much about it until he got himself away from this blasted inn and the crazy occurrences and individuals in it. 

“Again, I’m very…um-…flattered but – and with all due respect…however much that is for whatever or whoever you are - I don’t think I can trust you any further than I could throw you and I’d rather you left me alone.”

Grindelwald’s eyebrows rose to impressive heights and he took a few heavy, slow steps forward down the stairs towards where Newt stood at the top of the next flight of stairs, the young bard could see the ground floor now, a few people milling by the bar nearby. If it came to a fight or anything of that sort, he would likely be able to make a break for it down the steps and into the main room. He doubted that the man would try to do anything to him in a crowded room full of witnesses…even if they were all drunk and not all that happy with Newt. 

“I mean you no harm. I am merely offering you an opportunity to find some solid employment in a well-respected Terranic establishment. In my employ you would have a proper tutoring in the performing arts, better dress than the rags you currently bear-” his eyes skated over Newt’s apparel once more and Newt found himself straightening a little under the gaze, just a tad indignant at the presumptuous and superior manner of the older man, “-and I could also provide you with a regular, adoring crowd.” An earnestness entered his face that left Newt a tad wrong-footed all of a sudden, “You would be safe from attacks such as those you suffered tonight.” He smiled encouragingly, “I’m sure that I could find a place for your companions too, should they want it.”

Newt mulled the offer over, a little overwhelmed and thoroughly suspicious of everything about the man...though also more than a little tempted by the promise of a proper education, regular pay, food and lodging for himself and his friends. Tina was working hard to try to support her sister back home – there where home was for her, Tina had always been rather sketchy and Newt hadn’t pushed. He couldn’t imagine that Jacob would shun the opportunity being presented here either. The young bard chewed his lip before looking up with conflicted eyes and he shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested. Thank you all the same but I must be going.”

He turned and scarpered down the steps before the man could try to tempt him further, he pushed back through the crowd and out of the side door as before, gaining a worried whinny from the mare as he hurried past. Newt clutched Tina’s pack to his chest, half walking, half running back along the dirt track he had headed down just a little while before though it felt like a few days for all the mess he’d landed in the inn. Caught the attention of a sinister, wealthy older man with power at his fingertips and been accosted by a random thief whose face could not be seen. He couldn’t picture the thief’s face – only those sharp brown eyes. It was odd, unnatural, and Newt couldn’t help but wonder if he’d managed to step into some sort of magician’s turf war. They were almost unheard of – those with the gift often liked to establish a territory and didn’t appreciate any newcomers trying to take over.

And the business with this Grindelwald offering him a seemingly-ideal job – it was all mad! 

He got the feeling that, despite the thief’s evidently dubious nature and intentions, he had meant less harm to Newt than Grindelwald had. The violence and gruffness had seemed more genuine than the sickly sweetness and charm that Grindelwald had laid upon him, the compliments and offers seeming decidedly too good to be true. He was better off barely scraping by with his friends than with some stranger whose intentions were entirely dubious.

A lone fox approached Newt, scampering up to him and rubbing his face against the bard’s swiftly moving legs, letting out a low bark, startling nearby owls from their roosts but helping to calm the hammering of Newt’s heart a little all the same. He slowed his pace to accommodate his new companion and scratched behind one gingery, white-tipped ear appreciatively as he walked.

“It's okay, just had an odd evening is all,” he murmured in comfort to the agitated creature, smiling as the fox’s tongue came out to lick the remnants of blood and ale from his fingers, the rough tongue tickling as it cleaned him. He brought his other hand up to the wound on his forehead, glancing around the moon and starlit dirt path before beginning to pick out bits of pot from his head, hissing as each bit was drawn out but feeling that having them out was better than leaving the injuries to fester. He realised quite quickly, however, that it may not have been the best idea as he listed sideways, stumbled and only just managed to catch himself on a tree.

Newt slid himself down it, lowering to the ground to sit before he opened Tina’s pack, he pulled out her water flask and fumbled bandages, tearing off a strip, soaking it and began to scrub the dried blood from the side of his face. The process was met with continuous winces as the gore cracked, his skin feeling better for no longer having a tacky layer coating it. It stung like mad but he persevered, finishing the job as best he could with his vision spotting and wavering from pain and dizziness before digging into the pack again and retrieving a comfrey-lavender salve out of the pack. The salve was usually used for string burns but it was the best he had, so he smeared a little over the now fragment-free cuts. The coppery smell of blood was making him feel a little queasy but he levered himself up using the trunk as support before he carried on walking, determined to find Jacob and Tina before they got worried and came out after him. 

He reached the crossroads about a mile down the road but frowned as he saw no sign of either of his friends. He glanced back, confused. They had been planning to go to Arden next – a city about a day or so’s journey to the west but in the dark, Newt couldn’t make out any tracks. The young bard paused, glancing around and debating whether to continue on to Arden and hope he found his companions on the way or to go back to the inn as they might have returned to find him.

Thankfully, some nearby Glowbugs decided that he had dithered long enough and clustered around him, illuminating the path and showing the scuffing of dirt that led off to what seemed to be a deer track to his left into the woods. As he headed down it, Newt smiled to himself as he heard the cackling of a small steam and the clattering of pots on rocks. He sped his step, peeking around the next tree and breathing a sigh of relief as he saw the familiar forms of his friends highlighted in the orange glow of a small cooking fire.

It was Tina’s keen eyes that saw him first and she stood hastily from her rock, rushing toward him and grabbing his arm, sweeping down his hood to better look at his face. He smiled wearily at her and followed to settle by the fireside.

“I’m fine, Tina, sorry for taking so long...I got caught up,” he passed her pack over to her and she immediately rummaged through it for more bandages which she quickly but carefully began wrapping around his head. Newt huffed but did not protest, knowing it wouldn’t do any good and would only result in one of her withering looks.

“You didn’t run into any more charming locals, did you?” she asked as she took hold of his hand, turning it to examine the small gash there with a frown and a bottle of salve.

“Not exactly: I don’t think either of them was particularly local.”

“Either of them?” Tina parroted and Newt sighed, watching with a fond smile as Pickett crawled from his hood, down his arm and onto the ground beside him to rustle up a snack of the nearby insects. “Two chaps in the inn, a fancy fellow in the stables outside by the name of Grindelwald and-”

“You’re kidding?” Jacob broke in, eyes wide, and Newt looked over at him questioningly which resulted in a squawk of laughter from the larger man. “You met Grindelwald? _The_ Grindelwald?”

“Uh, yes, not sure about a ‘the’ -- but he did seem well-off, important. Full of himself, certainly.”

Tina snorted and Jacob rolled his eyes, slapping an exuberant hand on his thigh before demanding, “So? What was he like? What did he think? Did he like us?”

Newt blinked, a bit flummoxed, “Seemed to. Offered us a job after all…I didn’t think he was serious, though.”

“Newt... did you just turn down an offer of employment from Tarrania's most elite venue owner?” the words were slow and disbelieving and even Tina was eying him aghast. Newt squirmed under their stares, feeling as if – for perhaps the dozenth time that night – he’d made a big mistake.

“Are we sure we’re talking about the same bloke?”

“Pale hair, scary eyes, got a strong whiff of that gift stuff?” Tina asked, and Newt’s stomach sank as he nodded, both the other’s expressions falling.

“How the hell haven’t you heard of him by now? I thought you and Leta lived up the high life in some fancy estate most of ya life – how’d someone like Grindelwald not come up at least once?” Jacob asked and Newt shrugged dejectedly.

“Leta's home was pretty remote. We got visitors with news occasionally but her mother was always quite ill and spent most of the time in her room. Her father was usually off working and it was miles and miles to the nearest town from there. And since then, well, you know, I’ve been travelling with you guys and I suppose that Terranic club owners just never really came up?” he felt his cheeks reddening again and was distantly surprised that there was any blood left to fill them by the point.

“He owns a chain of clubs and bars across the continent but the most prevalent one and the one he’s rumoured to spend his time in is Nuremgard. Big place, right in the city centre, can’t miss it if you ever visit the Terranic capital. I saw it once on my way through but there’s no way in the seven hells I would’ve gotten in without an invite,” Jacob's expression was wistful but Tina’s seemed more bitter. Newt found this odd and examined her face, wondering where the sudden anger was coming from. She averted her gaze to the fire, throwing a twig – thankfully not Pickett – into the crackling flames.

“Tina?”

Silence.

For once knowing when not to push, Newt let it go.

“Are you sure that Grindelwald might not be gone yet? We could still talk to him, get a better idea if he was serious or not?” Jacob ventured, tone edging between desperate and deliberately light. Newt tilted his head, scratching at the fox's ear with one hand.

“I don’t know, he seemed to be on his way out but I couldn’t say where.” Despite Jacob’s enthusiasm, he still felt wary of the man with the eerie, mismatched eyes and his interest in Newt, even if it now seemed more likely to have been genuine.

“Probably back to the capital city of Teranine – due south of here,” Jacob supplied nonchalantly before carefully adding, “I’m sure his fancy horse would be pretty easy to find this time of night.” Brown eyes watching Newt expectantly and the younger bard sighed after a few moments and stood, nodding his head and earning a huge grin from the former baker.

“I’ll give it a go,” Newt muttered, feeling Tina’s eyes snap to him even as he closed his own, taking in a deep breath, letting his hands go lax on his lap, feeling the fox – Dhaval, he decided – rest his head on Newt’s booted foot. Another aspect of Newt’s…ability with creatures and a heightened sense of them – one that had been tutored and honed to him by the handsome bearded mage that had often visited Leta’s family estate in his youth – was that, when he focussed, he could seek out particular creatures.

Like before, when he had prepared to play, he let the contradictory impressions of calm and bustle of the night wood envelop him. So many voices came to meet him, the nocturnal ones in mostly warm greeting – asking him to hunt with them but the more diurnal creatures grumbling for him to leave them be. He apologised silently to the slumbering beasts, letting them get back to their rest and kindly refusing the offers of sharing a night-time prowl with the predators and pushed further out to the road. The voices of the wood got weaker as he pushed further than he ever had, miles down the road and following the trail of a Knarbird to the southern road, surprised when he found the impressive, friendly black mare more quickly than he had expected.

It seemed she and her rider were coming their way. 

The realisation had his eyes jolting open and Newt’s stomach twisting in uncomfortable knots. it almost seemed like Grindelwald had been following him, the mare quickening her hoofbeats as she heard Newt’s call. There was nothing for it now, he supposed, but as he looked over at Jacob’s hopeful face, he offered a weak smile. “He’s coming this way, just a mile down the road in fact.”

Jacob beamed, slapping a hand on Newt’s shoulder genially, “Good going buddy!”

Newt looked over to Tina to see her offering him a smile too, more subdued and cautiously optimistic than Jacob’s but grateful nonetheless and a little of his unease melted away. He might just be able to make up for their dreadful first performance and for leaving Tina’s things in harm’s way if he could get them work. Maybe his paranoia over Grindelwald had been misplaced: just because he had magic and was a bit over the top with his compliments, it didn’t mean that he was evil. After all, the mage who’d encouraged Newt in his youth had been bordering on a bit odd sometimes but he had been by far one of the nicest and most helpful visitors to ever come to Leta’s home. Though it had now been some years since he’d seen Dumbledore, he had ever since been grateful to the older man for teaching Newt that his aptitude with the natural was not something to be afraid of. He’d often told Newt, even from their first meeting when Newt was only a boy of ten, that people thought _him_ rather queer on occasion but that he hadn’t let it stop him from living his life or travelling as he wanted. Young Newt had scoffed at the implication that there was anything wrong with his mentor and Newt almost smiled now, thinking on how wide-eyed, naïve and eager he must’ve come off to the worldly mage. 

Grindelwald was probably just used to getting his way and if his reputation was as illustrious as Jacob implied, he had probably been surprised that Newt hadn’t leapt at the chance to work for him. He felt a bit silly now if he was honest. He couldn’t let his misgivings get in the way of his friend’s success – who knew, in a few months, they could all be as comfortable in life as Leta. Newt liked travelling, preferred being out on the road and camping amongst nature but he knew that Tina and Jacob didn’t feel quite the same love for the woods or its creatures as Newt did. Tina had been scraping up enough money to live somewhere with her sister for some time now and if this man – however unnerving – could help, then who was Newt to stand in the way?

So, as they all heard the rhythmic thudding of hooves on compacted dirt a while later, Newt did his best to smile at Grindelwald as Jacob brought him back to the fireside to meet the troupe properly. He tried to ignore the mismatched stare that laid upon him like cloying smoke, tickling his throat and burning his eyes just a little. He just nodded along with Jacob’s charismatic chattering as his friend sold the troupe’s skills to Grindelwald and gained muted enthusiasm in return. 

Newt pretended not to notice the leather-gloved hand coming to rest upon his thigh under his cloak as Tina and Jacob talked. Nor the warm breath that blew just a bit closer to his ear than necessary as Grindelwald addressed him in hushed tones,

“Don’t you worry, little bird, I’ll make sure that you’re all well taken care of.” 

**A/N – hey, just thought I’d say I don’t know how this will be received and it’s the first seriously AU fic I’ve ever done so please let me know if there’s anything that’s unclear or if people need a glossary of all the things I make up** **😊**

**Feedback is greatly appreciated and just as a side note, the first two chapters or so will be very mild on the disturbing content but please beware later chapters for trigger warnings for pretty much everything.**

**Thank you as ever to my lovely Beta Vins though please do not blame her for anything that comes out of this haha**

**Song referenced ‘Black Smoke’ – Amanda Palmer and feat. Clare Bowditch & Jherek Bischoff**

**(originally by Emily Wurramara)**


	2. Where there's smoke...

The agreement was finalised long before morning, Grindelwald repeating his earlier offer to the entire troupe, though, Newt felt, with decidedly less…intimacy than he had attempted at the inn with him alone. Newt had not slept that night. He often offered to be the first on watch – he enjoyed spending more time in the quiet of the night with only the snores of his friends and the sounds of the night creatures to accompany him. But this time he did not attempt to wake either of his companions to take their turns, for he didn’t feel like he could sleep with all the nervous energy buzzing through him. Nor with the stranger in their camp. Jacob had made the fair comment that it would make sense for them to travel on together to Teranine and Grindelwald had readily agreed, the man settled on the ground beside Newt, his hand softly resting against Newt’s ankle in a way that went unnoticed by all except the youngest bard.

It was just as the sky was turning pink, tinged with purples and orange that leaked into the inky early morning that Grindelwald gave up the pretence of sleep he’d been maintaining for the last hour or so and lifted his head from where it had been resting against his leather-clad chest. The man lying propped up on the log on which Newt sat and his eerie eyes seemed amused as they fixed on Newt’s wary face, the younger offered a nod and the smallest of smiles, trying to remember that this man was giving them work. Something they sorely needed right about now. 

“Morning,” Newt murmured, fiddling with a stick he’d been using to prod the fire into life every time it looked to be dying out, the charred, white end grinding somewhat into ash as he did so, venting his unease on the poor wood.

“Still awake, are we?”

Newt shrugged, shivering a little as the morning mist was cooler than the weather that he had been dressed for, though the day promised to warm considerably as it had done over the past few months as they had travelled further south.

“Someone had to keep watch.”

“On me?” Grindelwald cajoled with a slight smirk and Newt snorted despite himself.

“And everything else that might want to kill us in our sleep,” the response slipped from his lips before he could think better of it but didn’t cringe from the look he received in turn. 

A blonde brow arched in what Newt was beginning to believe was a habitual manner, “I get the impression that I have done something to offend you, Newton. Care to enlighten me as to what it is so that I might rectify it?”

Newt fought the urge to roll his eyes and instead threw his poking stick into the fire lest he be tempted to direct it elsewhere, “When you asked me all those questions before, at the inn…how did you do that?”

“Do what?”

Newt narrowed his eyes, “You know what – that…that eye thing.”

Grindelwald huffed a laugh and asked, ever so politely, “I’m sorry?”

Frustrated, Newt turned a bit more to properly face the older man and elaborated, “It was like you…I don’t know…hypnotised me or something. Was it-” he lowered his voice slightly, eyes darting to the sleeping faces of his friends, “-was it your gift?”

“Ah, yes, I do apologise, it was not my intention to be so obtuse,” Newt wasn’t sure whether he believed that or not but listened to the man’s excuse anyway, head cocked slightly, “I am not always quite aware of it happening, but I have a…tendency of drawing truth from people when direct eye contact is made.” He offered a wry smile, “Perhaps I should have warned you but if I’m being honest, you rather took me by surprise by meeting my gaze at all...jumpy little thing that you are.” 

Newt snorted, used to that observation being made of him by now – mostly by his irritating, pompous and conspicuously absentee elder brother. He found himself easing a little into the idea that Grindelwald might be as unsure of the limitations of his gift as Newt was of his effect on creatures. He often found them jumping to his defence or reacting to his moods without actively reaching out to any of them – it just happened. He ventured a soft smile that seemed to be savoured by its recipient, “I don’t suppose it’s the sort of thing that you’d often go around informing people of, hard to tell how folk’ll react to something like that but mostly, I think they’d just be annoyed.”

“As you have so perfectly demonstrated,” Grindelwald said mildly and Newt flushed a little.

“I-...I’m not used to humans paying much attention whether I’m performing or not, I often just sort of fade into the background for most - I prefer it that way and you...caught me off guard.”

“I have that effect on people.”

“I’ll bet,” Newt huffed a little before asking, “Why didn’t you enlighten me about your reputation before? I would’ve thought it was fairly obvious that I didn’t know who you were.”

“Well, I would have, had you not left so abruptly,” Grindelwald commented, eyes glimmering with mild amusement before adding with a slight frown creasing his brows, “Most are intimidated by my repute. Alongside my business in the realms that are more relevant to you and your companions, I like to think that I work to better the world,” his eyes were watching Newt’s fingers now where the bard was tracing an absent pattern on the back of the slumbering fox as his side, “I’m somewhat of a political activist. I use my standing, power and family name to help improve the world in any way I can. I fight for the independence and betterment of my homeland and the unity of all the lands of the continent. I’m of a mind that we would all be in a more stable predicament should we work together rather than dissolve into petty feuds and meaningless prejudices. Everyone has their place in this world and I believe that helping to find that place requires unity.”

Newt regarded him warily. In his experience, those with grand political schemes often ended up only being trouble, though he couldn’t deny the passion in Grindelwald’s mismatched gaze nor the admirable notions he spoke of. It _sounded_ idyllic, though Newt supposed that all politicians and nobles like to spin the same sort of pretty-sounding words and promises -- it was more in how they executed those ideals that meant a damn jot. Newt distrusted ideology. Too often it led to political schemes and trouble, and the rich nobles were never the ones to suffer for their ideas. Living amongst a noble family in his youth and hearing from his brother whenever he thought to write from court had taught him that much. Grindelwald certainly seemed to believe fervently in whatever cause he was fighting for – though Newt wasn’t sure whether to be comforted by that or not.

“Do people know about your gift?” he asked, redirecting the conversation to an area that held more interest to him, one that didn’t make him feel so dramatically out of his depth.

“Mostly through an impression given to the public, but very few are aware of my aptitudes in any detail. I prefer to keep...an air of mystery, shall we say.”

Newt giggled, the sound bubbling from him like water from a brooke “Well, you certainly achieved that,” he said, eying the extravagant leather outfit and glancing up to the older man’s unique eyes with a blush colouring the younger’s cheeks once more.

Grindelwald seemed delighted by the abnormally forward comment, smiling almost indulgently at the young bard. “What I don’t understand, however, is why you would pursue a career as a bard when you could have relied upon the Lestrange family to support you should you ask them to. Was it merely her being the one who was asking that led you on this path?”

Newt ducked his head, eyes fixed on the nearly-dead fire once more, “I suppose, yes, she was- is, my oldest friend, like a sister to me. She didn’t want to be stuck in her family home, forever isolated, she wanted to see if she could make it without her family’s reputation and money - she wanted adventure, and I...well, I wanted to see the world and I could play a little so I went along with her.” His voice dropped low and soft, “I couldn’t let her go out into the world on her own.”

“Until she left you on your own?” Grindelwald asked, just as softly, and a hand pressed to his shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Newt flinched a bit under it but didn’t move away, eyes still blurred on the dying embers.

He knew that the Lestrange family wouldn't take him back now, not after he had – in their eyes – spirited away their daughter and then traipsed about the continent, from shabby inns to dangerous terrain. They would blame him, no doubt, and though Newt didn’t want to go back, his heart still twanged a little with something close to homesickness. It had been the only home he knew. Theseus – being nine years his senior - had been old enough to work away from the manor and in the royal court as Lord Lestrange's assistant and later, his advisor. Theseus had no such attachments to the place as he had only visited on occasion in his job as an emissary and to check in on and usually scold Newt. Leta leaving him now didn’t just deprive him of a friend but of a chance to return to anything familiar; he wouldn’t go to Theseus for help, not when he knew his brother would just try to chivvy him away into some stuffy court position that would have him trapped there for the remainder of his days. It stung more than he ever thought it would to know that another tie in his life was cut. Something more lost to him.

“Yes, until then,” he murmured and Grindelwald sighed,

“What a waste. You could have been performing in the continent’s finest establishments had you not been living in the shadow of a gaudy, self-obsessed little noble girl.”

Newt flushed deeper “Why do you keep saying things like that?”

“Because they are true, sweetness.”

Newt averted his gaze, unsure how to rebuff the man's ridiculous insinuations without either offending him or making it seem like he was fishing for undeserved praise. Grindelwald pressed on, however, eyes keen on the side of Newt’s flushing face. “Perhaps you will believe me later when I introduce you to audiences that will appreciate you better.”

“And what about Tina and Jacob?”

Grindelwald shrugged, “Tina will do better in one of the female-staffed places I own, I believe, and your portly friend can continue his family's work in the culinary arts whilst occasionally acting as a doorman and crowd warmer.”

Newt nodded, seeing how both roles would likely suit his companions even if he wasn’t so sure about the idea of them being split up as a troupe. He supposed it did make sense though, they didn’t work seamlessly together now that their songstress was absent and it might be better for both Tina and Jacob to each play to their own talents.

“And what would I be doing exactly? I can play a fair bit but I think you might be overestimating my voice. I dabble but honestly, I’m not very good,” he huffed a slightly bitter laugh, “Leta always said I was too pitchy.”

Grindelwald glared into the brightening sky as if he could see Leta's face burned into it and Newt felt a tad taken aback at the ferocity of this near-stranger on his behalf. “You truly have lived at a disadvantage due to the foolishness and selfishness of those you hold in such desirably high regard, haven’t you? I’d wager she told you such nonsense so that you wouldn’t venture out on your own and surpass her. But there are others in the world who might help you fly, little bird, unfettered by such pettiness.”

Newt's brows furrowed and he looked almost levelly at Grindelwald, who seemed surprised by the sudden directness, “She may be...difficult at times, but Leta is still my friend and I don’t think I appreciate you making such accusations about her. She’s been good to me and has had struggles of her own, despite what you or any others might think.”

Grindelwald regarded him gaugingly for several moments before inclining his head, “I apologise, Newton, it was not my intention to offend you. I am merely concerned that you have underestimated yourself.”

The apology seemed genuine and Newt gave a slight shrug, humming acceptance before commenting, “It’s not the first time someone has told me that,” he pulled his hand away from Dhaval and into his lap, fingers twiddling and eyes fixed upon them, “My old mentor used to tell me that I could do much more if I just let my instincts guide me and to sod anyone who tried to make me feel as if I didn’t deserve what I wanted. He told me that I had a habit of acting quickly when it came to things I cared about and that it would both be a gift and something that’d come to bite me in the arse.” He huffed a slight laugh, “He always had a way of making more sense than anyone even if he did it in a bit of an odd way.”

“I have a companion who has a similar way about him, I think,” Grindelwald said, a fond, slightly bitter smile pulling at his pale lips as he gazed outward.

“Oh?”

“Yes, stubborn, know-it-all, holier-than-thou bastard but one of the best men I know – brilliant but so very naive in some manners,” Grindelwald’s eyes flickered over to Tina then and Newt was surprised as the woman sat up, rubbing her eyes, brushing a groggy hand through her hair.

She frowned when she noticed both of them staring at her, “What?”

“Nothing,” Newt hastened, scooping his gangly legs out of her path as she stomped off into the trees and out of sight. Grindelwald looked to Newt with a raised brow and the bard chuckled nervously, “Tina isn’t much of a morning person. Give her time and a bit of cold water and she'll wake up a bit, enough to be civil,” he paused before amending, “perhaps.”

Grindelwald looked a bit perturbed then and the expression only grew as he looked to Newt who cocked his head, “Something wrong?”

“Not at all, little bird,” he replied softly before he stood, stepping agilely over the uneven ground to where his horse stood obedient and content, digging a bundle from his saddlebag before tossing it to Newt. The younger man nearly fumbled it into the firepit but caught it anyway and pulled it open at a nod from Grindelwald to reveal several bread rolls and pastries. “Thought some food might help to lift everyone’s spirits a little.”

“Thank you,” Newt replied, eying the food keenly – not having eaten since the last midday but something tingling in his gut as he glanced to Dhaval who’s head had pricked up to stare intently at him, as if telling him not, under any circumstances, to touch the pastries. He glanced up at Grindelwald who was watching him, though that behaviour didn’t seem particularly out of character for him thus far, Newt carefully set aside the box and stood, brushing off his trousers and jerking his head off into the opposite direction Tina had just gone, “Nature calls.”

Grindelwald nodded but Newt could feel his eyes watching him as he headed off further away from the camp. He did need to pee, it was true, but he felt a nagging instinct beyond that telling him to get away from the man’s line of sight as soon as he could. He stopped a fair way from the camp and relieved himself against a tree, going over to the river, having kept to it as a point of orientation and rinsed his hands in the cool, fast-flowing water before rubbing a bit of it over his flushed face and neck. He shrugged off his cloak, shaking it out to remove the leaves and dust before slinging it over his white, baggy-sleeved arm, straightening and taking in a deep breath or two before heading back to the camp.

The forest was lighter now, sunlight dappling warmly through the green and brown foliage, speckling the dirt ground he walked, dead leaves muffling his steps and in that quiet, Newt was on edge to notice that he didn’t hear the continuous murmur of voices nor the sound of his companions packing away their belongings or stomping out the fire. It was usually their habit to set off soon after they woke to get a head start on making it to the next inn before nightfall, he would’ve thought that Jacob, at least, would’ve been chatty as ever, trying to butter up Grindelwald about the job and being his usual cheery self. The smoke from the dead fire tickled Newt’s nose and as he got into view of it, he frowned as he saw not only Jacob but Tina sprawled out by the firepit, Grindelwald nowhere in sight. The young bard glanced around, alert and wary as he spied the man’s horse nearby, Newt rushed forward, dropping his cloak and quickly rolling over Tina, checking her pulse and sighing as he felt it strumming steadily against his slightly trembling fingers. She was breathing softly, evenly, though there was a spot of saliva foaming at the corner of her lips, reminding Newt of the time that Leta’s mother had suffered from a fit and the older servants had worked to move the lady onto her side lest she choke on her own tongue, Newt did the same with Tina and then with Jacob. He struggled a little to do the same for his heftier friend but couldn’t think of anything else to do for them. They hadn’t responded to his touch or voice and he didn’t know exactly what was wrong with them.

Glancing over to Dhaval, who had followed him from the camp and back, he felt an inkling of suspicion and went over to the box of pastries that lay opened on the ground and suspiciously eyed the contents of two half-eaten sweetrolls. Poison – Grindelwald had drugged his friends. Likely tried to do the same to him, but why? They had been going with him willingly, wouldn’t it have been easier to kill them on the road if that were his intention, or else have done it while both of the others slept?

That left the pointed question of where Grindelwald was now. His horse was nearby and Newt sensed the oncoming presence seconds before he felt a hand on his shoulder and he jerked around to face the man in question, throwing up an arm to push him away only to be caught by the wrist before his hand could make contact. Grindelwald’s expression was hard though his eyes were somewhat amused, glimmering with something that Newt could not name and he quickly averted his gaze lest the man use his gift on him again. The young bard pulled back on the grip on his wrist, breath speeding up but not too fast yet, not panicked but getting there. 

When he spoke, his voice was low and angry but controlled, “What did you do to them?”

“Relax, little one, they are merely sleeping, they shall be fine once they awake and shall go about their merry way with full pockets and clear minds,” the voice was patient and Newt couldn’t tear his gaze away from his friends’ slumbering, slack faces, hoping against hope that Grindelwald was speaking the truth but inwardly scolding himself for ever having left them alone with the man. He had been suspicious of the man, sensed danger even, thanks to Dhaval, but he had still left: this was his fault again.

“Why do this now? What do you want from us?” he asked tensely, teeth slightly gritted as he pulled continually against the hold on his arm, feeling a tight, heavy anxiety worming its way deeper into his gut as the older, sturdier man’s grip did not give in the slightest.

“Not them, sweet thing, only you. I made my petty, pretty promises so that I could put you all better at ease so that this might go off without any need for violence,” he leaned in close to Newt then, inhaling softly and Newt shuddered, leaning his face away from the other’s but unintentionally baring his throat to Grindelwald as he did so. The older man reached up a hand and brushed gentle fingers over the light bruising on his throat and collarbone from the thief’s attack the previous night. Newt shivered under the touch, bringing his spare arm to grip at Grindelwald’s grasping wrist, shoving it back.

He felt more than saw mismatched, lunar eyes narrow at him and heard a low hiss of annoyance before the grip on his wrist tightened painfully, pulling Newt tight into a stout, leather-clad chest so that both arms were pinned between them. Newt’s eyes widened and he finally looked up to Grindelwald’s, though still avoiding quite meeting them directly as the elder hissed in his face, “You were the one to makes matters more complicated than needed - if you had accepted my offer and hospitality earlier, this would have gone much more smoothly,” he sniffed slightly before continuing in a more neutral tone, “Still, I suppose not too much harm will be done; as I said, your companions will continue richer and more content than before – paid under the assumption their previous job went well whilst their memories of yourself will fade into oblivion.”

“What?” Newt gasped, eyes wide as they glanced back to Tina and Jacob where they lay, looking so serene. 

“Exactly as I said. A push toward obscurity in their perception, it can be a tad heavy-handed sometimes but neither of them shall bother us any longer,” he smiled, eyes cold and lips stretching pale, smooth skin almost obscenely as he brought a thumb up to tilt Newt’s chin forward. The young bard bared his teeth and snapped at the offending finger when it pressed against his bottom lip. Grindelwald hissed in a breath, snatching his hand back abruptly to examine the nipped skin and bead of blood spotting pale, spiderlike digits. He chuckled delightedly and studied Newt all the more keenly which brought the sinking sensation only deeper within the young man, “Oh, you’re not so much a bird as a Ræv aren’t you?”

Newt almost bared his teeth again at the mocking tone but refrained from doing so lest it encourage the man to continue likening him to the strange fox-like creature that was known to inhabit the western regions. They were feral, unfriendly to most – except for Newt, he had found, even if they still took more winning over than most - and had a disproportionate lethality to their tiny size, barely comparable to that of a squirrel. They were venomous, thick red fur, black taloned paws and shining violet eyes and were notoriously distrustful of humans…perhaps a more apt description than Newt wanted to admit. Didn’t mean he was going to tell Grindelwald that though, providing he lived much longer that was.

He should probably do something about that.

“Why go through all this trouble? Just for a mediocre bard?” 

“Even were I inclined to agree with your piteous estimation of yourself, it is not only that which has me inclined to keep you-” Newt blanched but Grindelwald carried on regardless “-you seem to have an affinity with creatures that astounds me. You had a horse with the best training in the kingdom turn against me with no obvious signal, you have wild creatures alighting your way and following you about as if you were their own mother. And you pulled away from my compulsion with next to no effort,” the last part was gritted out, his eyes having been flickering between Newt and the creatures he spoke of before but were now hard and attentive. 

“I just have a knack, is all,” Newt sighed out irritably, hoping, perhaps irrationally, that this madman might let him go if he sated his curiosity, “Always have, they like my voice – damn sight better than humans do – and as for your ‘compulsion’ -- I just tripped, nothing more, you must’ve lost your concentration or something.”

“Doesn’t work that way, little one,” Grindelwald almost snapped, “I don’t lose concentration. _You_ must have done something.”

“I didn’t, now please, just let me go,” Newt insisted, shifting subtly so that his right foot was lifted a little, taking in a breath in preparation and the second that Grindelwald opened his mouth – likely to deny his request or else throw more unnerving compliments his way – Newt didn’t find out as he stepped hard on Grindelwald’s insole and shoved the man away with all his might. The elder cursed lowly, swiping to grab Newt but another shove from Newt had him falling backwards over the log and into the ashes of the fire. Newt didn’t stick around to watch the mage extricate himself, only hearing low hisses and curses as he did so, instead, hightailing it off into the trees. Hopefully, he might be able to find some creatures willing to help that would be of more help than a small fox or some delicate songbirds so that he might return to wake and help his human friends. But for now, he focussed on making the leafy ground fly beneath his feet as he sprinted from the madman in the firepit and whatever he wanted from Newt. He didn’t like endangering his creature-friends, especially not as they reacted instinctively to his moods without concern for themselves but it wasn’t only Newt’s life at stake here but the safety of his apparently amnesia-induced friends. 

The young bard leapt over the river, water splashing through streams of sunlight as an errant foot caught the edge of it as he flew. He moved around trees and all other obstacles with the grace and knowledge of any woodland creature. The only thing that ended up stopping him was the very man he was fleeing appearing directly in his path: he skidded, attempting to halt himself desperately and in his sudden halt of motion, he ended up stumbling to one side. Newt’s shoulder collided hard with a protruding, sturdy tree branch and he was down before he even realised what had happened, aching head thumping to the leafy ground with a flash of light. It didn’t knock him out, glancing blows that were mostly absorbed by the rest of one’s body were not often strong enough to do that, but it did stun him long enough for Grindelwald to throw out his hand toward the young man, the bright, burning eyes flashing as Newt suddenly found consciousness ripped from him in a disconcertingly abrupt manner.

...

When Newt awoke, however long it was later, he could feel the warmth of open sun beating down on him, his face was pressed against something hot and it felt a little stuck, his mouth felt dry and his eyes were gummed shut. He couldn’t feel much below his stiff neck but got the general sensation of being rocked and jostled about in a loping, regular motion. The young bard could smell the warmth of sun-soaked leather very close by and the overwhelming odour of horse over that. Whatever his face was pressed against was moving, like the steady pace of breath, he inhaled softly, stretching his sore lips and unsticking them from the leather, forcing his aching lids open in an attempt to better gauge what the buggering hell was going on.

Newt felt a comforting presence nearby, the warmth and smell of the familiar mare from before, her mind brushing gently against his and offering a sense of safety, that she was keeping their journey easy, swift and as smooth as the terrain allowed her to. He extended a tendril of thanks toward her, feeling an almost maternal fondness warm him in return though simultaneously getting the impression that even in horse terms, she was not much older than he, simply that she cared for her passengers with a fierce protectiveness once she had decided that they were worth it. Apparently, he was. It was a comforting thought to know that he was in safe hands, err…hooves. 

He felt a sound run through the solid warm weight his back and head were pressed to and what could only be a leather-clad hand snuck into his hair, running through the mussed curls in a possessive, repetitive manner. Newt had to further shake himself to try to remind himself why that wasn’t something he wanted and mumbled an unintelligible protest that caught in his throat and prompted a rumbling laugh and soothing hushes from the voice, “Shhh, you’re alright now, sweetness, just go back to sleep.”

“N-no...” Newt mumbled stubbornly, eyes rolling lazily in their sockets, catching vague glimpses of a flash of blue sky, pale skin and hair before they slipped shut once more. He managed to slur out a few more words in the moments before unawareness took him again, “S'not sl'p...n’ckd m-me out...”

“Hush now, fierce little thing.”

...

The next thing he knew, the overwhelming scent of horse was absent, the smell and feel of leather was still heavy though. Newt missed the smell of the friendly mare, hoping, albeit blearily, that she was okay and being continually well-cared for...by the same man who had treated him quite poorly.

Well, he had been polite enough and charismatic, Newt supposed - heavy eyes refusing to rise and equally leaden body resting in the strength of another – right up until the point where the man, Grindelwald, his sluggish brain supplied, had knocked him out and apparently abducted him. He gradually became aware of the scent of heavy perfumes and what smelt like expensive alcohol permeating the air around him as he was moved, his aching head still resting against what he realised was a man’s chest. Newt wanted to push back, to scramble away from the body he was cradled against, the strong arms encircling him, but knew that even if he managed it the only result would be him crashing to the floor, unable to move. So, he stayed, eyes pressed and gummed shut and face leaning ever so slightly away from the chest that was his support. Whatever magic had been worked on him, combined with quite a nasty head injury, had drained him of pretty much all his strength and despite his distaste for his current position, Newt knew that biding his time and playing weak would probably work better to his advantage than futile struggling.

The steps slowed and then began to climb, Newt letting out a breath of a groan as he was shifted in Grindelwald’s arms, his injured, though dressed head thumping uncomfortably against the older man’s shoulder and sending a jolt of renewed pain through him. He heard a low hum before Grindelwald’s voice sounded again, the words vibrating against him even as the steps did not falter.

“Sorry about that, Ræv, carrying you this far is not as easy as I had expected even with such a waif as you.”

Newt, realising that pretending to be still unconscious at this point was rather pointless, managed to pry his heavy lids open to glare weakly at the man who held him and managed to croak out a reply that was considerably less incoherent than the last, “You needn’t have troubled yourself.”

There was a huff of a laugh as they turned a corner in a long, dimly lit corridor, the walls stained a ruddy colour by both the tinted glass ensconcing the lit candles and the burgundy paint. “Somehow I doubt that Mitte could have carried you inside even had I allowed it.”

“Mitte?” Newt murmured and an impression from the beautiful mare came back to him, an impression of that name belonging to her as she did to Grindelwald but another name from her perception flickering past it to play on Newt’s slightly cracked lips. “Oh, you mean, Anja?”

Grindelwald frowned down at him, a brow raised and Newt shrugged as best he could with almost all of his body still numb beyond most movement, “That’s what she thinks of herself as, though she knows to respond to what you call her too…clever girl that she is. Puts up with a lot from you.”

He felt leather gloved hands readjust under him before he was suddenly deposited upon something soft and firm, smelling pleasantly of cloves and something like Nightvine-Roses but with a more metallic edge to it. The bard heard the creak of leather as a weight settled on the bed next to him before a bare, warm hand pressed to his forehead, resting there for a few moments before withdrawing again and he heard a click of a tongue. “No fever, am I to believe that this rudeness and rambling is the result of the injury to your head or is there something you’d like to tell me?”

Newt fought against the impulse to relax bonelessly into the soft, cool sheets under him and worked at keeping his eyes open and fixed upon Grindelwald’s softly illuminated face, noting as he did so that the carved wooden balcony doors that stood open showed a dark sky, the glimmer of sunset fading from view below the city skyline. The room he lay in was as ruddily lit as the hallway, no fire in the empty grate as the room was stiflingly warm already, more elegant red-tinted lamps decorating the walls and expensive, dark wood carved furniture adorning the space. There were several walls lined with tall bookshelves where richly bound tomes and scrolls took up most of the space and various magical looking ornaments, devices, jars and bottles sat humming, whirring, buzzing, bubbling and spinning. Though not with any sort of predictability as their forms might suggest. 

“A bit of both, perhaps,” he replied honestly, voice low and a little hoarse, unable to move much but not letting the panic thrumming subtly in his blood overwhelm him. It wouldn’t do to lose it just yet, there was still a chance he might be able to talk himself out of this. Unlikely, it seemed, but maybe still possible. He decided honesty of his own volition was preferable to the blunt, uncontrolled kind that Grindelwald’s eerie eclipsed eyes drew from him, “I have a knack with animals and she thinks highly of you even if she gets fed up at your temper tantrums sometimes,” he huffed a slight laugh, a startled, vague impression of Grindelwald’s dark, billowy form sweeping about nearby Anja, shards of silver light being hurled at shadows even as one of those shadows laughed and dissipated.

“A knack, is it?” Grindelwald’s tone was incredulous, “not a gift nor a power, merely a knack? Your modesty strongly borders ignorance here, Newton.” 

Newt’s brows furrowed as he regained a little feeling at the tips of his fingers and toes, the appendages tingling fiercely even as he didn’t attempt to move them, hoping that time would release him from whatever paralysis had overcome him. Keeping Grindelwald talking seemed a good way to buy that time. “I don’t know what else to call it really, but whatever it is, it still means that even your horse thinks you’re a melodramatic sod.”

Those eerie eyes regarded him intently for several moments before his face dissolved into begrudging amusement, “Whilst I appreciate your sharp tongue and apparent lack of concern for your current predicament, I would advise you to perhaps keep better control of yourself. Not everyone here will appreciate you blurting every single thought that is either your own or any nearby creatures’.”

“And where exactly is here?”

“Nurmengard, just as I told you,” Grindelwald replied evenly 

“Why?”

“Again, I already told you – I want you to perform for me and my clients. You shall be well compensated and accommodated as long as you behave yourself and keep up with your training.”

Newt blinked, shifting his numb shoulders a little higher up on the pillow he lay on, feeling a bit more strength flowing through him as adrenalin tickled his veins, fear flowing faster, “And if I told you that I don’t want to be here?”

Grindelwald’s lip curled and his hand rested upon Newt’s knee as it jerked a bit in pitiful response to his agitation, “I would tell you that you would not find better prospects anywhere else and that you would be foolish to think so.”

Newt’s sea-stained eyes narrowed, “I thought you were the one telling me that I had ‘talent’ enough to do most anything I wanted,” he muttered, throwing the man’s words back at him with a rising sense of unease choking his dry throat thickly.

“Not on your own. You require tutorage and to be free of those who were weighing you down. The latter was easily achieved and with time, I believe the former will show you that you belong here.”

“Do I not get a say in this at all?” Newt asked, pretty sure he knew the answer but once again feeling that playing somewhat acquiescent would work better in his favour around someone like this – a dangerous creature, a predator that was capable of more than Newt knew and he wasn’t about to infuriate or test those boundaries just yet.

Grindelwald chuckled low in his throat, “Perhaps, but only once I am suitably convinced that you are healed and able to make fully informed decisions for yourself.”

Newt sighed, curling his fingers slightly into the soft silk bedsheets below him, half-fisting the black material in his repressed frustration and the sensation of being slowly caged, the walls closing in no matter how attractive the cage might be, “How long?”

“In a few days, perhaps, as long as you don’t overexert yourself.”

“And then?”

Grindelwald’s eyes hardened a fraction at Newt’s persistence before he responded evenly, “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

“Why bother trying to drug us all? We were coming with you willingly,” Newt’s questions were spilling forth now, his frustration overwhelming him even as the numbness receded from his indolent body.

“I realised that your friends would only get in the way of your acclimatisation here, you demonstrated an unhealthy tendency to cling onto the past and those who would only hold you back, I thought it better that we continue unfettered by your companions.”

Newt’s brows furrowed further, “But why me? I’m sure you’ve met much more interesting people in your life.”

Mismatched eyes rolled before Grindelwald sighed and stroked the hand resting on Newt’s thigh slowly up to his hip, brushing soft, spiderlike fingers over the jut of his hip bone and exploring the dip of a slender waist. Newt twitched slightly under the touch, fingers fisting the bedsheets but unable to lift his leaden, tingling arms just yet.

“You see, little one, I don’t just collect things that are beautiful, no, there is no real value in something so superficial as that. I collect the rarest – those with talents and even gifts that are beyond the ordinary, those who have worthy blood singing through their veins and only require the right opportunity to let it show,” his eyes burned into the side of Newt’s face even as the bard averted his gaze, avoiding those eyes for all he could. There was a quiet laugh, altogether darker than those they had shared by the fireside on the road. “Though I can’t deny that having that raw, unique power wrapped up in a package as delicious as you has its appeal,” his eyes flickered over Newt again, appraisingly, almost indulgently, leaning closer, forward onto his elbows so that he was practically hovering over Newt, one hand reaching up to brush the air mere inches above his the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “Such soft skin, fine features, a dusting of sun kisses to add to the character and accent your eyes...such a sweet boy.”

Newt knew what he was going to do mere moments before it happened and even so, his eyes bugged wide in shock when Grindelwald’s lips pressed softly to his. The young bard was struck with the momentary urge to simply lay there and let it happen, to let the warm weight of the man press down into him, the strong fingers to cup and guide his jaw and to allow the Blackvine-rose smell envelop him as soft, _knowing_ lips pressed to his. But then a hand slid up his side, dipping slightly under his shirt, long fingers teasing the light trail of hair that led lower, touching the edges of sensitive, scarred skin…he shook himself and brought his numb, tingling arms up to shove violently at the older man.

Though the initial push did not separate them much, the swift, barefooted kick to the man’s stomach and hip succeeded in pushing Grindelwald off of him and the bed to go sprawling on the tiled floor. Newt scrambled back, numb, coltish legs propelling him up and off the other side, back hitting the wall as he watched on with wide eyes as Grindelwald stood, straightened but then was abruptly flocked by a swarm of bats that came blindingly fast through the open balcony doors.

“What in the name of Asha-" the rest of Grindelwald's curse was cut off as the bats went for his face, Newt could feel the mage’s skin tearing under what felt like his own claws, could feel the buffeting of his wings against a firm form. It was enough to surge more adrenalin through him and he scrambled to his feet, diving around the bed and toward the balcony, he could see the other exit but didn’t think he had enough time to check if it was locked before Grindelwald got to him. He stumbled dizzily, numb-legged to collide with the waist-high stone rail and glanced over the edge, wincing when he saw the ten-foot drop to the next roof below, a sprawl of sun reddened tile roofs as far as the eye could see, though most in significantly poorer repair than the nearest ones. He saw an unnaturally lush and verdant garden in the courtyard below him, wide tiled corridors running around the edge, Newt now understood where the creatures aiding his escape had come from.

The young bard levered himself over the edge of the parapet but just as he was about to start manoeuvring himself down, a firm, fierce hand fisted itself in his shirt and tugged him back. His backside collided hard with the marble floor, jarring his aching body from his coccyx to his pounding head and he released a cry of frustration which morphed into one of rage and grief as he saw the unmoving forms of bats around him. Some looked charred and others were vaguely twitching, tiny black, leathery wings feebly attempting flight as the life left them. He could feel them dying, feel the dozens of deaths as his own, little pieces of himself crumbling and flaking away on the balcony night breeze as he lay, panting and pinned against the chest of his killer. He let out a howl, slamming an elbow back into Grindelwald’s stomach as hard as he could, the grief for the unjustly called and killed creatures furling his strength and he had to fight against more creatures that tried to come to his aid.

There were so many of them – mice, birds, insects of a hundred kinds or more, and more – strange, exotic, powerful creatures hidden deep below him, below the building itself and hungry. Desperately seeking freedom even before his unintentional call to them and fighting all the more strongly because of his distress. He sensed skin, scales, fur and fire – fangs, claws and hooves ready to be used in his defence but he pushed back against his own fear, trying desperately to reassure them that they needn’t come to his defence. He could see and smell the human guards through them – men and women who wielded both weapons and magic to keep them captive. Newt couldn’t let them go up against that – didn’t want more death on his hands so he quelled his anger, his fear and the other simmering pot of emotion that swelled in his chest. 

When he dragged himself, inch by clawed inch, back into his own body and self – away from the impressions and forms of so many different creature-kin, he could feel tears wetting his cheeks, his hair sticking damply to his sweaty forehead, his body aching and humming with pent-up energy pressed up against Grindelwald’s. The mage’s arms were wrapped firmly around his, pinning them crossed over his chest and muscular legs wrapped around Newt’s gangly ones at the ankle, leather boots holding his bare feet firmly though somewhat sympathetically to the cool tiles. When he stopped twitching and managed to control the sniffling breaths to something vaguely human, the hold on him loosened a fraction and Grindelwald pressed his lips briefly to Newt’s cheek, prompting a violent shudder from the young bard, before he released him entirely. 

Newt scrambled back again, not violently resisting but spinning and pressing his back to the balcony before fixing wide, stinging eyes on Grindelwald whose expression was purposefully blank though something discordant shone in his mismatched eyes. Something that hinted at a touch of something so unlikely as fear…or perhaps uncertainty, he wasn’t good at knowing with humans. 

“Curious and curiouser,” he murmured, eyes wide and fixed on Newt like daggers on a target. Newt merely sat and focussed upon getting his hammering heart and stumbling breathing back under control. “Now how did you do that? Was it a casting?”

Newt shook his head, responding but only just and Grindelwald sighed, leaning forward onto both knees from his previously half-sprawled position on the tiles. His face, neck, hands and even his partially exposed chest were cut and bleeding thin trails of crimson against the immense pallor of his skin. Newt felt a small jab of satisfaction at the sight even as it was overwhelmed by guilt at the knowledge that innocent, well-meaning marsupials had died because of him. Because of his inability to control either his emotions or the effect he had on creatures. The bard felt some solace in the knowledge that he had prevented the rest of the nearby wildlife from following the bats' example into death by reigning himself in. Small reassurance though it was with the choking scent of burnt bat flesh filling the warm air and small, broken bodies littering the ground before him.

Though, as he looked longer, some of them suddenly seemed less charred than he had thought at a glance, yes, now that his attention was solely focussed upon them, he could see definite movement. Newt could feel the stirring hum of life building in them and as he watched, a few suddenly flapped, flailing a little on the floor with agitated squeaks before they began to rise into the air and sped themselves out of the room and into the night air. The young bard could only watch in astonishment and relief as his injured protectors drew themselves up one by one and left in a pitch stream of small furry bodies into the night sky. It was a marvellous sight to behold. Though rather puzzling as he was almost certain that at least two of them had been nearly completely immolated, he didn’t question the miracle however as his head began to swim quite alarmingly and he slumped where he sat, mind foggy and distant from the concern of anyone nearby – be it man or beast. 

Newt felt a hand upon his cheek, tapping insistently and he looked up through watery eyes, vision weaving and pulse thundering through him as he met the mismatched eyes and heard words that almost seemed to echo within his head – keeping him aware and anchored. Even if he didn’t really want to be. “Stay with me, now. No drifting off just yet.”

Why? he thought groggily, he didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be here.

He heard a soft sigh and felt a thumb brush over his lacerated forehead, pressing ever so lightly into the wounds until he jerked, bare feet scrabbling at the cool tiles until he was almost upright again, head spinning unpleasantly, stomach lurching but feeling a little clearer. Some of the pain and fogginess in his head receded and his sight came back into focus. 

“There we go,” came Grindelwald’s voice again and Newt glared weakly at him, “I had hoped to avoid attempting a healing just yet as it can often be a tricky process – especially with matters of head injuries and draining, but needs must, I suppose.”

“What?” Newt croaked, reaching a hand up to where the cuts and bruising had resided and felt relief flood him – however tainted with suspicion – to find the skin smooth and painless once more. He knew that those with the gift could heal, but he had always thought that it was done by potions, salves, treatments and the like. Grindelwald’s power was continuing to impress and unnerve him the more he learned about it. 

The mage seemed to interpret his question correctly despite the vagueness and elucidated: “Healing is not my forte but I have had cause to learn it in the years since I first discovered my gifts and under the advisement of a companion of mine, I’ve learnt to master it to a degree that far surpasses the primitiveness of those you have likely encountered.” 

“I hope you aren’t waiting for me to thank you,” Newt replied after a stretch of almost expectant silence had passed and Grindelwald’s pale brows creased, eyes narrowing a fraction.

“A little gratitude would not go amiss here, Newton. I am offering you a rare opportunity and have treated you with nothing but kindness thus far. There are many who would not show you such courtesy.” 

Newt snorted incredulously, “Courtesy is it, Mister Grindelwald? Drugging my friends and then kidnapping me is considered polite? I might be a tad behind on noble etiquette but I don’t remember any of those things being acceptable.”

Grindelwald’s smile was equal parts amused and darkly patient, “You are indeed behind, young one – in my experience, no noble is ever denied what they want when it comes to collecting commoners as they wish, to do with as they please, unless there is some sort of power play in effect.”

Newt swallowed dryly and his glare sharpened, “You won’t find me so easy to collect, Mister Grindelwald.”

He laughed lowly, eyes darting to the night sky as if expecting another airborne attack at any moment, “No, perhaps not.” 

Newt wasn’t about to risk more creatures' lives for some desperate attempt to escape that might well be as easily thwarted as the last. He couldn’t bear the thought of feeling dozens of deaths flow through him, the scorching, sudden end of innocents...no, he couldn’t do that. But that didn’t mean he had to let Grindelwald know that. Until he could figure out a better way out of there, he would play along to the extent that wouldn’t get him killed. But that also didn’t mean that he had to pretend to be receptive to Grindelwald’s...advances on him. He wasn’t quite naive enough to not know what the older man’s wandering hands and intent looks had meant even before he kissed him, though he wasn’t experienced enough to know how to deal with them.

He could feel the panic needling at him, tingling his skin and knotting his gut to the point of nausea but he tried to push it down as he pushed himself up to stand. Grindelwald followed him, watching him like one might a skittish horse, ready to bolt and his mismatched eyes were firm on the bard's ashen face. The mage regarded him a little while longer and when Newt didn’t move, he spoke again. “I would not advise attempting to leave just yet, Newton. I shall ensure that you are well taken care of until such a time that you feel more accustomed to your new place here.”

Newt inclined his head minutely, examining the slightly scorched floor by his bare feet intently and flinching just a little when he heard a weary sounding sigh that accompanied a light brush against his hand. He drew the appendage back abruptly, almost cradling it in his other hand by his hip, noticing that his cloak was missing in addition to his boots and socks. He noticed that his white shirt was dustier than ever, spattered with flecks of blood and crushed sticky with old ale around the sleeves still from the inn. His high-waisted dusty blue trousers weren’t in much better condition and also sported a long tear along the left inner seam. Newt felt immeasurably weary still but despite that weariness, he avoided sitting or lying down, watching Grindelwald expectantly, hoping that the man might give him some privacy to sleep or else show him somewhere else to do so. He got the feeling that these rooms he currently stood in belonged to the mage and did not relish the thought of remaining in them any longer.

“Very well, little one, follow me,” Newt’s head jerked up and he stared at Grindelwald as the man’s perception passed that of an astute individual and into the preternatural. Though, by this point, he shouldn’t be surprised to imagine that this bizarre, presumptuous mage could do anything at all. Instead of questioning it, he merely nodded minutely and followed Grindelwald from the room on shaky legs. They passed back down the corridor they’d traversed earlier, several doors lining the walls, dark stained floor inlaid with ebony and gold designs and as they descended a flight of stairs, Newt’s bare feet padding silently on them, he heard the rising swell of music and laughter coming from below them.

They stopped outside an unmarked door at the foot of the stairs, still above ground level, perhaps the second, Newt imagined. As they stepped inside, Newt’s suspicion was proven correct as he saw the garden courtyard at a similar angle as before. Albeit through a much smaller, heavily locked window. He paused at the threshold, eying the simple though well-designed room with caution, not really wanting to follow the mage inside. Grindelwald regarded him coolly, eyes beckoning even if he didn’t do so in a more obvious gesture.

“This is your room for now, but if you don’t find it to your standards I’m sure there’s room in the lower levels,” his gaze darkened perceptibly on the silver-blue side though the dark eye remained inscrutable “Though I fear you won’t find them quite as accommodating as these.” 

Sensing the threat in the tone and thinking to the creatures he’d sensed kept below him, Newt swallowed and stepped into the room, edging about it to stand before the cushioned chair in the corner of the room, hovering nervously. He felt no better than a skittish colt around Grindelwald – less like the fierce little animal he had likened the bard to, no, he saw himself at that moment as an animal itching to run but not quite sure how to use its ungainly legs just yet. In desperate need of guidance but not knowing where to look for it. He doubted that anyone here would help him even if he knew how to ask. Newt only spoke a little Terranic and it was fractured at best -- he had picked up a little of various languages from visitors to the Lestrange family home and had asked the well-tutored Leta about them later. The snatches of conversation he could hear drifting from below were in an unfamiliar tongue and he began to feel so far out of his depth that the idea of the shore was a distant dream.

To break the awkward, tense silence that fell, Newt ventured, “Dare I ask what you did with my bag, boots and lute?”

Grindelwald snorted, “You may,” and when Newt merely fixed the mage’s midriff with a weary glare he sighed theatrically, “Your instrument will be returned to you in due course but as for your other belongings, I’m afraid that not many of them were particularly salvageable.”

Newt gaped, eyes narrowing, “What do you mean ‘salvageable’? Just because they weren’t up to your standards doesn’t mean they should be thrown away.”

Grindelwald’s pale brow arched at him challengingly and expression not looking a jot contrite, “What I _mean_ is that during our journey, I was forced to take some detours to avoid undesired company and in the process, I saw fit to sacrifice the rags you had been keeping on your person. Not to worry though, little one, I kept those items of value that I thought you might lament losing.”

Newt regarded the older man gaugingly, not giving voice to his irritation at the massive presumptuousness of the mage before him, knowing that he would only sound petulant should he complain and not seeking to irritate Grindelwald any further. He merely nodded, not trusting his voice and sat in the chair he was hovering over, hoping that it might earn him a reprieve from the man’s company but also because the exhaustion was weighing heavily upon him now more than ever. Grindelwald seemed pleased with his movement and headed out of the room, pausing at the mantel, one hand curled around the edge of the door as he looked back to speak, “You’ll do well here, Newton, you may doubt it now but you’ll learn,” he shrugged a little, “Please do not attempt anything foolish in the meantime. I won’t hesitate to harm anyone or anything that is put under the illusion that they can take you away from where you belong. Do bear that in mind, won’t you?”

Newt nodded.

The door clicked behind Grindelwald and he heard the distinctive sound of a key turning along with a soft shimmer of red colour over the wood that told him that he wasn’t likely leaving the place any time soon. Not that he’d expected much better after the whole drugging and kidnapping aspect of their meeting. Newt stood, making his way wearily over to the bed before dropping down gratefully into cool, silk sheets and a thick pillow that engulfed his aching head in a wave of jasmine scent. Had he been more awake, he would’ve likely scrunched his nose and turned away from the heady scent but as it was, he just began to drift. Escaping should’ve been a priority but Newt supposed blearily that there was little chance of that happening as circumstances stood. Instead, Newt let himself fall into the realms he often inhabited in his sleeping hours, joining the inhabitants of the sky and those scurrying across the earth, letting the simplicity of it lull him in a way his current situation never could.

<img src="<https://66.media.tumblr.com/fb53a0dd5d5280f5553c1876c38b7cd0/a3819360a0672d82-ce/s1280x1920/b525b4b8559b598215e7a8ebab269fd2e3237ca5.jpg>" alt="map" />


	3. Lessons to learn

When Newt came back to himself once more it felt closer to something like a resurrection than simply awakening. He was sore, aching and despite the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, the young bard felt exhausted, beyond physical and mental exhaustion. Like the very core of him was weary. He pushed himself up from the silken sheets with a low groan, feeling along his shoulder as it twinged painfully at the movement, gasping as he tugged back his loose shirt to reveal deep bruising over his shoulder and collarbone – likely from where it had struck the tree when Grindelwald had materialised in front of him. Newt supposed that he had had good enough distraction to not notice it much up until now what with the head injuries, drugging, and the impromptu bat defence.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shivered a little as his bare feet met the cool tiles, rubbing a hand roughly over his face and through his gritty, messy hair, scrubbing it back from sea-stained eyes. Asha above, he could use a bath and a hot meal sounded great right about then too. He had not eaten in far too long and felt the need to wash the past few days' events from his body, at least. He eyed the locked door and windows warily, not really expecting them to open simply because he wished it but also almost thinking that Grindelwald might swoop in that particular, oddly omniscient manner of his. The bloody mage seemed to be able to predict his reactions and needs with alarming accuracy for the most part. With the exception of the bats perhaps, though Newt hadn’t expected that either so he supposed it made sense that no one else would’ve, no matter their Gift.

He realised dully that his thoughts seemed to be rambling a bit and stood, treading carefully over to the dresser where a large bowl of water sat. Newt dipped his hands in, sighing as he found the liquid warm and soothing. He hadn’t had a warm wash in weeks, having had to do with forest pools, streams, and lakes as they hadn’t the coin for a bath as well as rooms. Newt hoped that what Grindelwald had said was true – that Tina and Jacob were safely on their way, even if the idea that they had been made to forget him stung the backs of his eyes with hot tears. He scrubbed water furiously over his face and kneaded his eyes, attempting to repress the treacherous tears before they could begin to fall.

There was nothing he could do for his friends unless he got out of here and that, he felt, was going to require some careful manoeuvring. The only issue with that, however, was that Newt had no idea what he was doing. Nor, really, what Grindelwald wanted him for. He still didn’t believe that the mage had gone to all this trouble simply because he’d spotted him at the inn and decided he was pretty or talented enough to be worth abducting. It was ludicrous. But then again, Newt couldn’t really think of any reason why someone would kidnap him. He was worth no ransom to anyone important - Theseus would care but it wasn’t like they kept in contact enough for his brother to notice he was gone. Even if he knew, he didn’t have an excess of money. Was it influence Grindelwald was after? Sway in the Adinal court? Newt supposed that might be likely as Grindelwald had obvious political schemes and a penchant for grandeur but then again, he seemed to not have any idea of Newt’s past or family. Unless he was playing dumb? But then that didn’t seem like something that would fit in with the man’s massive ego.

Argh! Newt scrubbed at his face more violently, shaking the excess water from his hands across the room and stepping away to examine the world outside his window. He guessed he’d just have to wait for Grindelwald to return and then he could pepper him with the questions that were spinning around his head like so many agitated Fwoopers – not that he expected any honest answers from the man. He, like most people who had decidedly too much power and influence, seemed to excel at providing answers that placated but didn’t really answer what had been asked in any useful manner.

He looked down at himself, glancing briefly toward the still shut door and window before stripping off his ruined clothes and taking up the cloth that rested next to the bowl, dipping it into the tepid water before he began to wash. Newt was quick but thorough out of more than just habit bred from cold water bathing, not wanting to remain on display to either himself or anyone else. He didn’t like looking at himself, often dishevelled and worn from travel and long days spent in forests, waters, or hills with various creatures. Didn’t like looking at the shiny burn scars that latticed his left side, marring the pallor of his lanky frame from hipbone to shoulder, nor the thinner, ropier way they trailed across his pelvic bone, thighs and down to the opposite ankle on his right.

They weren’t ugly as far as scars went; he knew that, had seen enough grizzled warriors, bandits and soldiers on the roads to know that he was lucky with the mostly smooth nature of the burn scars even if the ones that led lower were slightly raised where they’d healed worse due to prolonged movement during the healing period. He’d caused the scars to be more permanent than they could have otherwise been but he’d also had them for long enough now that they caused him no shame, no humiliation for their exposure. But that didn’t mean that he relished them either. He didn’t go flaunting them to eager maidens in taverns as the soldiers did – demonstrating how ‘brave’ and ‘hardened’ he was. Newt was far from it. He hadn’t received the wounds in a bloody battle nor an impressive struggle with some supposedly vicious beast – though he had received the odd thump or two from the type of soldier in question when he pointed out that the fearsome dragon they described couldn’t have possibly caused the type of wound they sported. He had learnt long ago to stop correcting them and simply keep his annoyance to silent scorn as pig-headed brutes vilified and slandered magnificent, proud, if difficult, creatures.

When finished, Newt looked down at his dusty, torn and blood-spattered clothing indecisively before tentatively looking through the drawers of the dresser, sighing in irritation when all he found were gaudy silk doublets, a few chemises, and what looked to be a woman’s robe made of gauze. He pulled his dirty clothes back on in preference to whatever performer’s garments had been available, though he did don a soft chemise underneath his shirt, both due to its cleanliness but also simply because he rather liked the feel of soft cotton against his skin. It was so light it almost tickled and was softer than anything he’d worn in years – they had been forced to sell most of his and Leta’s finer clothes soon after they started their journey. Of course, Leta’s had fetched more but he’d gone quite a while, selling more of his own garments until he only had the clothes on his back before Leta had realised what he’d been doing and scolded him before sacrificing the majority of her expensive dresses to a silk trader who had been intimidated into accepting them for an almost reasonable price.

Dressed, though feeling a little disgruntled at the feel of the open air on his inner thigh through the split trouser seam, Newt looked around the room some more. He was half hoping to find an escape and half simply curious. In the drawers he found more clothes and a few bottles of oils which appeared to be perfumes of some kind – not that he was any kind of expert on the matter – and a spare blanket. Unfortunately, finding no razor with which he could shave the light stubble that fuzzed his cheeks but he supposed that Grindelwald wouldn’t risk letting him have any sharp objects lest he attempt to escape again. He passed the drawers over for the time being and went to the small trunk in the corner of the room, alarmed though decidedly relieved to find his lute stowed safely away in it. Newt drew the instrument out, cradling it carefully in his arms and stroking a hand fondly over the worn wood of its base before strumming a few chords, glad to find it still intact and only requiring a little re-tuning.

It unnerved him to imagine someone – likely Grindelwald- in the room as he slept, but he didn’t let himself linger on the idea. He let his restless fingers dance over the strings in familiar fashion, playing out the very song that had so recently got him forcefully expelled from the inn. He didn’t sing, his voice caught and trapped in his throat as he softly played, not knowing how long he was going to be trapped in the room and deciding that he may as well take advantage of having his near-constant companion of almost fourteen years in his hands once more.

He wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed when the door opened again but he noticed that the light outside the window had developed from that of an afternoon to the ruddy orange hue of early evening. Newt didn’t stop playing immediately, keeping his head down and sighing in a mix of annoyance and almost acceptance as he saw familiar knee-high black leather boots. His fingers stilled then but he didn’t look up even as Grindelwald spoke.

“Don’t stop on my account.”

“Pitch me a coin or two and I’ll carry on,” Newt replied, tone dejected but a tad wry and when he looked up at Grindelwald’s resulting chuckle he relaxed just a little to see the man leaning casually and seemingly at ease against the door frame, legs crossed over one another slightly in conjunction to his arms over a leather-clad chest. Newt could’ve sworn that the man’s v neck leather jerkin was cut lower. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“The room, care and clothing are insufficient incentive?”

“Not when I’m given little choice in any of it, no,” Newt replied evenly before flickering his gaze over to the dresser with almost challenging incredulity, “And you can’t honestly expect me to wear any of that?”

“Not content in anything but rags and sackcloth?” Grindelwald challenged with a bemused looking smirk gracing pale lips as he stepped forward and picked up one discarded item of clothing – a lilac silk doublet with a deep red trim – and held it up in the air before him as if trying it on Newt before shaking his head with a soft chuckle, “I’ll admit that the garments scrounged up by my staff were not chosen with any sense of the subtlety of your features or personality in mind.”

Newt lifted the strap of his lute over his head and gently placed it down on the bed beside him, standing and eying the open door and Grindelwald with equal trepidation. He didn’t think he’d get far if he ran but it didn’t hurt to consider his options or the amount of freedom Grindelwald was leaving him with. He spoke, as if to cover his surreptitious glances, “I wouldn’t need anything from you if you hadn’t disposed of most of my possessions in flight of-…well, in flight of what? I’ll admit I’m finding it hard to imagine anything that would cause you pause.”

The masked thief’s intangible face flickered before his eyes then, painfully clear brown eyes burning as he had searched and fled Grindelwald’s room at the inn. He dispelled the image just as quickly.

Grindelwald chuckled airily, “I’ll take that as a compliment, little bird, but all the same, it was a necessary sacrifice. Though I’d hardly even call it that,” he clucked his tongue before heading back to the door, beckoning as he did so, mismatched eyes taking in Newt’s still shabbily dressed state, “Come with me and I’ll see to it that you are properly dressed and fed before I show you around your new home.”

Newt sighed, but he was eager to leave the room so he followed Grindelwald out and down a corridor and another flight of stairs.

“This isn’t my home, Mister Grindelwald, nor will it ever be. I don’t want to be here and I’m quite sure that after spending any time with me in your…establishment, you’ll want me gone too.”

Grindelwald’s laugh drifted over his shoulder as they stepped through another corridor that was lined with paper screen doors, the shadows of moving people just visible through the maroon fabric and a heavy scent of pipe smoke lingering in the air along with the heady aroma of oils and perfumes. Newt coughed a little and hastened his bare feet to follow Grindelwald’s purposeful strides, looking around as they passed what he assumed to be the sleeping quarters and past a long stretch of arched windows that showed the garden courtyard just outside. The scent of freshly baked bread and cooking food permeated the air as they passed yet more doors, probably the kitchens and dining rooms if the smells and steam wafting from the open doors was anything to go by but Newt didn’t get the chance to look very closely as Grindelwald marched onward.

They stopped a few minutes later, Newt marvelling at the sheer size and grandeur of the place the whole while. They had descended a final set of steps into a much warmer area. It was a bathhouse, red-brown wood panelling the lower half of the walls whilst the upper half and floors were comprised of hot, multi-coloured tiles. Designs of fish, vines and flowers played out over the walls and stretching down into the deep pools of clean, steaming, freshly hot water. There were streamers of creeping vines dangling down from trees permeating the furthest wall, verdant green growths that sported small red flowers and bulbs reaching so far as to drape the surface of the water.

The air here was scented with flowers too, though thankfully not as strongly as the sleeping quarters. The room was not empty, however: a man was just climbing from the deep-set tub off to the left. He grinned, flashing white teeth that contrasted flattering against deeply sun-drenched skin. The man had the high cheekbones, a sharp nose and the heavy jaw of someone who might be considered classically, ruggedly handsome, but his looks were offset with a small degree of kindness and mischievousness that lined his dark eyes and smiling lips. His hair was swept back from his face in a loose horse-tail, tied with a leather strap but other than that, the stranger was completely naked and Newt was quick to avert his gaze back to his own feet, face burning furiously. 

Grindelwald chuckled and Newt directed his burning face toward the older man, glaring balefully as he saw that the mage was smirking between Newt and the stranger, arms folded across his chest. Grindelwald turned his attention back to meet the stranger’s amused dark honey-coloured gaze, flecked with shards of emerald light, greeting him casually, as if the other man wasn’t standing stark naked, dripping on the hot tiles, “Jareth, glad to see you back, I trust your hunt proved successful?”

The man, Jareth apparently, shrugged noncommittally with a slight grimace. An amused tone laced his Amikan accent, the lighter twang sounding at odds with the deep timbre, “Not exactly but I’ll get the little sod, don’t you worry.” His amber-dominated gaze flickered to Newt and the younger man shuffled a little on his feet, both in discomfort but also due to the immense heat almost burning the soles of his bare feet. If the man noticed it on his own, he didn’t show it as he stepped forward, Newt being compelled to stare at his muscled chest in lieu of his usual tendency to keep his gaze downcast. Eyes weren’t an option he often went for and he wasn’t about to look down either. “Now I can’t help but wonder where you found this one,” he stepped close, reaching forward and gripping Newt’s chin, forcing his head up and their eyes to meet. Newt reeled back a little, hopping a step or two away from the other man, relieved when he allowed it with a low chuckle and Newt glared. “Find him wild did you, Gellert? I thought you’d stopped picking up strays after the last one nearly castrated one of your clients.”

Newt's eyes widened and he hastened back another step, almost tripping into Grindelwald’s leather-clad chest as the man stepped up behind him and levelled Jareth with a seemingly scornful look, “Not the time nor place, Jareth. Newton is here as my guest and apprentice – not to serve the likes of the Count of Sarinthe. Now I’d suggest you move along, you’re making my little bard nervous.”

Newt would’ve glared but was rather relieved when Jareth chuckled again, nodded, and slipped a towel around his waist from a nearby pile before swaggering from the room.

Newt swallowed thickly before managing to eke out, “W-what-...what kind of establishment is it that you really run here?”

Grindelwald sighed delicately, stepping around in front of Newt before responding, “What we do here – and in all my properties – is service the whims, entertainment and desires of those wealthy, influential or fortunate enough to afford it.” His head tilted as he regarded Newt, gauging his reaction, “Please disregard Jareth's assumptions of your place here. He is one to see a pretty face - especially one in my company - and assume that you are here in the same capacity that he once was before I helped him excel in his true calling.”

“Which is?” Newt probed.

“Hunting.”

Newt rather got the feeling that he wasn’t referring to animal game. But he wasn’t feeling brave enough to challenge Grindelwald on it. Seeming – as ever – to sense that Newt was not comfortable with where the conversation was going, the mage gestured toward the steaming pool before them with one elegant hand.

Newt felt something cold slither down the hot, clammy sweat that was currently sticking his shirt to his back in the too-warm room.

“I already washed,” Newt protested softly and Grindelwald clucked his tongue dismissively.

“Not to my satisfaction, you didn’t.”

Mismatched eyes flicked up meaningfully to his messy hair and then down to his dirty bare feet where they stood on the hot tiles, toes nervously playing with one another.

“No, really, I’m fine, I can wash properly later-"

“No. You’ll do it now and then get dressed in your new clothes without a fuss.”

“But-"

“Newt, don’t make me force you. I don’t wish to be harsh with you on so simple a matter but if you force my hand, then I shall be.” His gaze hard, Grindelwald ordered, “Strip. Now.”

The words were bitten out and Newt’s only reply was to glare obstinately. Grindelwald sighed and raised a hand, clicking his fingers and causing Newt to tense as two men appeared in the bathhouse abruptly, as if out of nowhere, heading straight for him, each taking an arm and manhandling him forward to crash to his knees at the mage’s feet. Their grip felt cold and intangible but for their strength and when Newt looked up, he was shocked to see them gone. He knelt where he'd been deposited, panting slightly and thoroughly confused. He looked up as Grindelwald stepped closer, his head tilted and lunar eyes regarding him with eerie patience. “See, little one? I can be cruel if you force me to, but as you have been reasonably agreeable thus far, I will give you one more chance to act of your own accord before I resort to actual force.” 

Newt stared, eyes narrowed in an assessment of how serious the man was before slowly getting to his feet, ever-so-slightly trembling fingers reaching down to the hem of his shirt and pulling it up over his head. The young bard shuddered and flushed slightly under Grindelwald’s faithless gaze, seeing him taking in the soft baby blue chemise and stripping it off quickly too. Too late, Newt realised his mistake and turned away, only to be caught by the elbow and spun back into Grindelwald, the man’s mismatched eyes narrowing as they scrutinised the shiny pink scars that mapped Newt's left side.

“Now what happened here, little bird?”

“An accident,” Newt bit back softly, pulling out of the other man’s grip and stepping closer to the water's edge, glancing back only momentarily before stripping off his trousers and smallclothes and sliding rapidly into the water. He hunched his pale form down into the deep, steamy water as quickly as he could, legs curled up to his chest and arms wrapped tight around them. Newt kept his back to Grindelwald even as he heard steps on the tiles right behind him, curling in deeper to himself and trying to control his shuddering before he heard a soft sigh.

He heard a clambering and creaking of feet and leather as Grindelwald sat upon the bath edge, dipping his feet down into the water beside Newt, the young bard startling further and cringing away as he saw the man's bare, startlingly pale legs descend too. He must’ve shed his leather trousers along with his boots, probably realising that he couldn’t roll the garments up with how ridiculously tight they were. Newt inched along the pool floor, moving further away whilst hiding as much of himself as he could.

The boy didn’t dare look back at the man to see what else he might have shed.

He just shifted uncomfortably in the warm, otherwise soothingly-scented water, as he heard the mage’s smooth, low, almost melodic voice echo out just slightly across the water to him. “Am I to assume that the accident you speak of involved a creature of some sort?”

Newt shifted again, tightening his arms’ grip around his knees before inclining his head barely perceptibly in acknowledgement.

Grindelwald sighed, “Should I also assume that this reluctance is your way of acting out after I reprimanded you or is this a more particular reaction to the subject of your past pain?”

Newt barely lifted his head but did so enough to stare out at the stretch of tiles before him, even distorted by the water as they were. “Perhaps I’m _reluctant_ simply because I don’t like you.”

Grindelwald laughed loud and the sound echoed unpleasantly around the large room, “Beside the point, little Ræv, you only seemed unhappy to speak now that I have something personal to bring up.”

“Or maybe _again_ , it’s just a simple case of me not relishing being forced to strip and bathe in front of a man who drugged my friends and abducted me!” Newt snapped, still not turning but inclining his head a little in Grindelwald’s direction as he heard a light splashing sound and felt ripples displace the water around him.

“No need to be so sour, Newton, this is all for your benefit after all.”

“Hardly seems so," Newt muttered, sliding across the tiles a bit further, knowing that open water was more visible but preferring to keep the misty water distance between him and Grindelwald.

He heard another chuckle, closer than before and toed himself further toward the other side, finally deigning to turn around though deliberately keeping his eyes on the bath edge behind Grindelwald’s bare shoulder. Newt kept himself as hidden as he could be, resolutely trying to ignore the appraising gaze that was running over him from the other end of the pool. The younger man could tell that Grindelwald was still trying to get a better look at his scars and felt irritation flood him at the invasiveness of the gaze, wishing that he could cover the exposed areas of his marked legs that were still available for the man’s perusal.

“You’re not ashamed of them, are you,” the words were not intoned as a question despite their phrasing and the mage said them with something akin to speculation, as if testing out the taste of his musings aloud simply for effect. “Not so shy as one might assume from your demeanour, merely…private. Knowledgeable of how some may react to the origin of your wounds and stubborn on the matter past a simple case of nerves.” 

Despite himself, Newt was drawn to respond, tone dull but angry nonetheless and gaze fixed past Grindelwald, blurred by the steam rising from the water, barely feeling the creepers of plant life brushing his shoulders as they floated upon the surface of the water.

“Most assume they were a result of savagery from a mindless beast and that-…” he took a deep breath, steadying his anger and sorrow at the memories the tale was awakening, “-that just wasn’t the case. It was humans who were responsible for Aotrom lashing out, but it wasn’t really their fault either, they were just blinkered people who didn’t understand what they were seeing.”

“Aotrom?” Grindelwald echoed softly, eyes thoughtful, “Light? In the original Veridian?”

Newt nodded mutely, arms pressing himself into a tighter ball, “She was a Softscale – just ten years old, barely a kit in Dragon years.”

“You befriended a dragon?” Grindelwald asked, a pale brow arched so dramatically that even Newt’s distant gaze could see it and he sighed.

“She adopted me,” Newt corrected with a faint smile, remembering her soft cries whenever he tried to leave her for even a moment, soft white, silver speckled scales and olive-toned eyes shining as she tried to follow him from the safe leafy hollow where he’d encouraged her to hide. She’d often chided him on leaving the perceived safety of the little den he’d carved out of the hillside for her – told him he was foolish for ever wanting to leave, at the time he’d smilingly agreed with her but have had been forced to leave every time all the same. He had always found himself back at the house he didn’t quite call home but the one person he had counted on for so long, Leta tutting as he trailed mud and creature scent into the expensive hallways of her home. 

“You attribute this to your ‘knack’ again, I’m sure,” came the slightly derisive reply; he could see Grindelwald’s pale arms outstretched on the edge of the pool. 

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that I just-...that I just get along better with creatures than people. Why does it have to be magic?”

“I gather from your tone that this isn’t the first time someone has suggested to you that your aptitudes are a Gift and not a _knack_.”

Newt shifted in the water, crossing his ankles before him, “That mentor I mentioned before, was quite insistent that my instincts were an odd version of the Gift.”

“You think you know better?”

Newt shook his head, frustrated, “I don’t know. I just don’t think there’s any use putting a label on it like that. I get along with creatures and they with me, I understand them because I pay attention to them and their needs. They aren’t the feral monsters people think them to be. They have motivations, feelings, thoughts and desires just as a human does - only very few creatures hold ones borne entirely of malice, merely survival.” He stared into the water between them with fierce, if resigned, disdain, “What is there more to say about it?”

“But you cannot deny that the way beasts come to your aid against their natures is preternatural?” Grindelwald pressed and Newt looked at him directly for the first time since he entered the pool, avoiding his treacherous eyes but focussing somewhere upon his damp hairline.

“And what would you know about their natures?” he challenged, tone vehement, “Perhaps they act on my behalf because I _might_ be able to project my intentions further than is normal but that does _not_ mean that my bond with them is of a magical nature!”

Newt felt the burning need to stand, to swiftly leave the room and its infuriating inhabitants but he could not – not with Grindelwald between him and the exit. Even if he got out on this side of the pool, he did not doubt that Grindelwald would intercept him before he’d even got around the edge of the room and he did not relish the thought of being exposed nor of slipping on wet tiles only to be caught and pinned again. He had edged himself into this corner and the smirk on Grindelwald’s face told him that he not only knew it but had intended it – knowing that Newt would move away from him in the water and adjusting himself accordingly.

The man truly was infuriating.

“If you are truly going to be so stubborn on this matter until I provide you with ample evidence of my theory, I might suggest a change of topic?” It was phrased delicately and Newt rolled his shoulders slightly before inclining his head in a minute nod. The young bard froze, however, as Grindelwald moved closer, wading through the thankfully waist-high water, deceptively leanly muscled pale torso glistening with rivulets of water. His arms and right side boasted a scattering of light scars themselves- likely aided in their healing by magic – and despite the overall air of menace that Grindelwald exuded, the scars were somehow the least intimidating part of him.

The mage didn’t stop until he was settled in the corner nearest Newt, sat upon the lip of the seat as the bard was, only managing to make his posture once again more of a languish than the hunched, nervous ball Newt favoured. Completely at ease with his nudity. Most unlike the bard.

“What did you want to talk about?” Newt ventured when it didn’t seem like Grindelwald was going to say anything, the man's head tilted, arms spread out once again behind him on the bath edge.

“You seem to veer from being awfully resistant to oddly open at seemingly random intervals, Newton, why is that?” his gaze ran over Newt and the water surrounding him in such a way that Newt fought the urge to try to ball himself smaller.

Newt considered it for some moments, one finger idly prying itself from where its fellows were clamped around his knees and tracing invisible patterns in the water. “I answer what I think will aggravate you if I do not. Whilst I’m not making any pretence to like being here, I also want to live. Is that so wrong?”

“Self-preservation then, is it?” Grindelwald’s eyes narrowed, “No, I think there’s more to it than that.” His lunar gaze burned into Newt and the young bard shifted uncomfortably in the water. “You’re afraid,” he said suddenly and Newt’s gaze snapped to his, as if in contradiction but Grindelwald’s lips curled into a smile all the same, “you’re afraid that I’ll compel you again.”

Newt’s expression hardened, “Wouldn’t you be? How would you like it if someone drew the truth from you against your will?”

Grindelwald’s expression became inscrutable, “What makes you think that someone hasn’t?”

Newt was caught off guard, “What?”

“How else do you think I would properly learn such a skill without it having been demonstrated to me? On me? The Gift, no matter how instinctual, requires training and discipline – as I’m trying to show you.”

“I thought you said you wanted to change the subject? I told you before, I don’t have any bloody _Gift,_ ” Newt insisted, eyes fierce and irritated.

“What is it that has instilled such ferocity in you?” Grindelwald asked, half-curious, half-bemused though with a steely vein of something else that Newt couldn’t name running through his expression.

“I can’t see how it’s any of your business. I’ve been patient enough with your questions this far but you haven’t done me the basic courtesy of offering me any semblance of privacy nor telling me exactly what you expect of me here.”

His sea-stained eyes flashed as his limbs uncurled of their own accord, not enough to expose anything vital but enough to make it clear he was no longer cowering. Not that he had been before, even if he’d been content to give that impression in lieu of brazen exposure. “You called me a guest to your companion – an apprentice, even, yet I have no say in my presence here. You implied that I wasn’t here as a-…a whore-” he stumbled over the word a little, cheeks colouring and eyes darting before he steeled himself, tone low and husked, “but you have already made _assumptions_ of exactly what you would be getting from me.”

He levelled a firm, beckoning gaze, “Were these allusions to me having any choices simply a front? Because I would rather you be plain on the matter. Don’t bandy about with your words like you would with a politician. I’m sure you’ve probably surmised that I don’t have much regard for humans because of tendencies just like the ones you’re displaying now.”

“So perceptive a kit, aren’t you? You say you are no expert on human behaviour but you seem to have caught on just fine,” Grindelwald’s smile was almost indulgent and it jangled Newt’s nerves no end as he replied in a waspish tone.

“I never said I didn’t understand humans, just that I don’t care for them for the most part.”

“And what of those you call friends? There must have been something that set them aside from the rest of the species – at least in your eyes – or was it merely a companionship of convenience?”

Newt’s gaze became guarded, “They’re good people. They’re kind. They don’t judge by appearances alone. Tina may be a tad on the snappy side but she’s a loyal friend and Jacob is one of the most welcoming, accepting people I’ve had the fortune to meet.”

“Have I not been welcoming, Newton?” an arched eyebrow.

Newt snorted, “Aside from the shows of force and petty, incessant questioning, you’ve been an absolute gentleman, I’m sure.”

“And yet here we are,” the older man gestured to both of them and the bathhouse at large.

“Not by any will of mine,” Newt countered in a mutter, “I’d rather leave the water before I begin to prune.”

Grindelwald laughed heartily before gesturing once more, this time with one hand toward the dresser in the far corner of the tiled room where a pile of towels lay, “By all means.”

Newt glared, “Could you not do me the courtesy of turning your back at least?”

“But why ever would I do that when my opportunities include staying here to continue our conversation or to behold the beauty before me as you leave? You’re not giving me much incentive here, Newton.”

Newt was genuinely unsure how sarcastic Grindelwald meant the words to sound but no matter their sincerity or mockery, he scowled and sunk further into the water, resulting in a chuckle from the mage who sidled closer.

Newt scooted further away, or, he tried to, he suddenly noticed that one of the hanging vines that had been dangling absently over his shoulder had suddenly tightened around his bare bicep. It wasn’t an inescapable grip but when Newt reached up his other hand to pull the vine free, another darted out, quick as a striking snake, and captured his wrist. He looked to Grindelwald who was watching him, leant forward now, with a fascinated sort of smile gracing his lips and highlighting the light angles of his face, throwing sharp features into clearer focus.

“W-what-...what is this?” Newt demanded, pulling testingly on the grip the plants had on him and grimacing as they not only tightened but he felt more slither over his shoulders and down his bare arms to join them. Grindelwald did not answer him for once, merely watching with equal parts amusement and apparent satisfaction as the vines twined themselves round and round his arms, pulling them back so his lower back hit the edge of the pool. His legs scrambled for purchase but his feet slipped uselessly over the mostly smooth tiles, only succeeding in propelling himself further into the apparently sentient vine's grip. He was panicking now, breath coming in short, hollow bursts and eyes wide as the was now very much visible above the water, inescapably exposed by his positioning as yet more of the vines surged down and caught his struggling, splashing legs. Newt gasped as they curled around his ankles, almost grating grip flowing up tighter and tighter as they reached his thighs and wrapped them tight together.

Even once he was immobilised and exposed to Grindelwald’s undeniably interested gaze, the vines did not cease their moments for even a moment, twining, tightening, loosening and curling along his damp, shuddering flesh in maddening, unpredictable patterns that had him panting, tingling and more than a little confused. The trapped bard turned his gaze to Grindelwald in a beseeching manner, sea-stained eyes wide and panicked. He wasn’t entirely sure what this was about but judging from the older man’s continued attentions, Newt could hazard a fair guess. “Why? What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing, sweet thing, I merely grew tired of your shyness when you really have nothing to be ashamed of,” eyes roamed intimately over Newt and the bard shuddered but felt a stab of relief as Grindelwald made no move to come any closer, at least not yet.

“I’m not ashamed, I just don’t like being put on display,” Newt gritted through his teeth, tugging pointedly at the vines encasing him and hissing in pain as the plants responded by pulling in kind, drawing his arms up above his head, still spread apart but straining his shoulders as his bound legs remained tethered lower to the pool floor.

“You have a number of lessons to learn in your time here, Newton, and one of the first is that you should not be ashamed of what you are – in form, feeling or Gift. And, as you stand-” his gaze became slightly humoured as he took in Newt’s sprawled, stretched-out form with mismatched, unmatched intensity, “-you seem to resent at least two of those things. I aim to cure you of that.”

“I’m not sure if this-” another pointed tug that resulted in an equal tightening, trying his desperate best to reason with apparent depravity, “-is the way to go about it.”

A derisive laugh echoed the bathhouse tiles once again, “So young, I would call you naïve but, in some ways, I think not,” he huffed, standing, causing Newt to tense in his bindings as Grindelwald came to stand before him, close but not touching just yet, the bard’s head dipped to one side as he looked up at the mage through narrowed eyes and lowered lashes. “You shall remain there until I feel the experience is properly understood. It will take a few more demonstrations for this particular lesson to sink in, but I’m sure a lad as sharp as you will pick it up quite quickly.” 

Newt’s heart was hammering hard in his ears, pulse thrumming at that rabbit-fast pace again, “You can’t leave me here like this.”

Grindelwald looked amused by this, “Of course I can. Don’t worry though, little Ræv, you shall not go wanting, you’ll be fed and watered soon. And you won’t be lacking for company either.”

“What?” Newt’s voice was low, almost unheard in its hoarseness.

“This is an area open to all my clients and I shouldn’t imagine any will shy away because of your presence. In fact, some will undoubtedly be enticed by it, I’d wager,” his silver eye shone brighter then and Newt increased his writhing in his slippery green prison to no avail, “They shan’t be allowed to touch you, however, little one, I spoke the truth when I said I would not make a whore of you to others and I shall stay true to my word.” His expression seemed about as sincere as it could be given the circumstances even if it offered the mortified young bard little consolation for his current predicament or prospects at the hands of this man. “It does not mean, however, that my patrons cannot sample a feast for the eyes such as this. It will do you good.” 

“Don’t do this,” Newt pleaded, voice low but steady despite his great apprehension and Grindelwald pierced him with a painfully patronising smile as he stepped forward, uncomfortably close, and pressed a soft, damp hand to Newt’s flushed cheek. He stroked a thumb over Newt’s prominent cheekbone, making almost soothing sounds at Newt’s attempt to jerk back from the touch was thwarted by two thick vines curling around his throat from behind, not tight enough to be a stranglehold but still enough to pose a significant threat.

A warning.

Grindelwald’s hand brushed over Newt’s jaw and cheeks, an intense, unnatural heat radiating from it that caused him to gasp, flinch and sweat more profusely as the light stubble upon his face was singed away with careful heat. An amused silver eye flared brighter as Grindelwald completed his work, fingers curving over the newly smooth skin and his lips blowing cooler air onto the stinging nerve-endings as if to soothe the irritation he caused there. Newt blinked furiously, throat bobbing against the vines wrapping it as he swallowed down the lump that had formed there. 

He bore the continued caresses even as his eyes wetted brightly when Grindelwald’s free hand stroked along the bound expanse of his thigh, dexterous fingers brushing over brief bits of exposed, over-sensitised skin that were available between each coil. Yet more vines, this time, much smaller, thinner ones traversed the stretch of his spine, tickling his sides and curving up to tease at the sensitive flesh of his nipples. Newt flushed darker than ever at the helpless panting sounds that left his lips as the vines coiled around the hardened pink nubs until he was arching into the stimulation, feeling the slippery, slightly rough texture tightening and teasing maddeningly. He felt humiliation curl hot and painful in his gut as he felt the stirring of arousal curl there too, his cock beginning to take unwanted interest in the proceedings, responding to the stimulation even as he hated every second of the attention. 

One of the neck vines curved higher, twining its way, serpentine, around the pale length of his throat to curve over the back of his head a caress his cheek where Grindelwald’s hand was retracting. The plant protrusion pressed against his tightly closed lips, obviously seeking to gain entry, though what for, Newt couldn’t say. He could only look beseechingly to the damned mage he knew to be orchestrating his torment.

“Please, I don’t want-" he was cut off with a half-unheard gurgle as the vine took the opportunity to push its way past his lips. Thankfully, it did not press deeper than he could stand, but curled itself into a knot behind his teeth, pressing his tongue down and keeping him quiet. Another vine came to wrap itself over the one in his mouth, threading through, under and around the first and knotting the makeshift gag securely in place. Newt fought hard to keep the tears at bay but also to keep from gagging on the mass in his mouth, tasting the slick heat of the water and secreting something sickly sweet and flowery onto his tongue. The scent, he belatedly realised, that he’d been inhaling this whole time, these very plants having likely thrived from and in turn fed the water of the pool. Oh, Asha above, he'd been so stupid, not noticing the dull, suggestable movements of his mind until it was too late and now, he was threatened with much more than spilling his innermost secrets and thoughts. It was all such a bloody nightmare; Newt wasn’t sure what to be more outraged by.

“No need to fret, little one, you’ll be perfectly safe while I’m gone,” Grindelwald told him in a parody of soothing and Newt’s eyes bugged wider than ever, feet splashing then hitting the edge of the tiles as he was pulled back further, his spine and head hitting the warm, writhing expanse of plant growth covering the wall as it seemed to almost embrace him. The vines wrapping each leg individually cinched his legs in tighter, binding them together into one almost mummified shape and binding him up to the narrow dip of his waist. Newt couldn’t control the deep groan that left him as his semi-hard length was pressed and packaged up underneath the covering and wrapping of vines and leaves, the plantlife working under Grindelwald’s insidious will to stimulate yet prevent his release and bind him further. He felt small, delicate protrusions upon the vines brush against his slit, stroking his shaft and tucking his balls up tighter against his body until his strained, sea-stained eyes were spilling over in helpless pleasure. Grindelwald seemed almost entranced by the delicate, pearlescent streams that the tears trailed down his smooth, stinging cheeks. 

The young bard let out a muffled series of cries, desperate words that were muted by the plant growth invading his mouth as he was lifted higher, tethered feet and body now suspended as the tendrils supporting his arms pulled him ever higher. Newt was now stretched out between the water and the high, plant infested ceiling as if on a rack, the pale flesh visible and exposed between each swathe of vines. It only served to amuse Grindelwald as the man waded, ever naked and unashamed, out of the pool. The mage wrapped a towel about his waist, his ear-length white-blonde hair damp at the ends and sticking a little to his face and neck, looking flatteringly – unjustly - innocent and utterly at ease as he left Newt, bound, aroused and thoroughly exposed.


	4. In a bit of a tangle

Newt was unsure how long it was as he hung suspended, trapped and writhing under the grip of the insidious, ever-teasing vines but the only notable change from his constant torment came at the sound of voices coming from the hallway outside the bathhouse. Quite a lot of them, in fact. Oh bugger, Mahalat, Asha and Thyniet, no, no, no, why?! Was it too much to ask that his torment could’ve gone unnoticed? No witnesses to mock or ogle or Asha forbid...try to take advantage of his situation. He moaned, writhing harder against his ropey green restraints and letting out a muffled yelp when the leaves encircling his groin tightened dramatically, as if in warning, before he felt himself hauled up higher than ever, the plants pulling him back so that he was suspended above the ground, his feet now free from the pool floor but lashed closer to the wall with yet more vines.

He sobbed into the vine that had shoved its way so cruelly into his mouth as the tip of his now aching, weeping erection was exposed through the covering on his crotch. Even the warm bathhouse air seemed to sting like a sandstorm as the peak of his arousal was exposed to it, the vines and leaves encircling his shaft and balls adjusted to accommodate the new exposure and Newt moaned again, bucking his hips as far as they could go in their captivity before falling still as he realised soberly that there was nothing to thrust into or even against. Just the open, heated, flower-sweet air of the pool.

The pool that was now apparently being visited. Newt’s eyes slipped shut in mortification and he tried his very best to melt backwards into his greenery prison, surprised, though a little relieved when the movement was allowed. The wall of vines wrapped his shoulders in thin tendrils and even as Newt heard the thumping of bare feet on tiles, he felt the vines shift yet again, the tight encasement on his legs unravelling to leave only the crotch covering and the vines that tethered his ankles, hips and knees. Light tendrils still teased the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs but the sensation was both masked and magnified by the further exposure and the release.

“If you’ll just step this way folks, you’ll be able to enjoy the best baths this side of Amus-Kai and-" a soft, bubbly woman’s voice cut off with a momentary gasp and a squeak and Newt’s eyes flickered open reluctantly to see a pretty, delicate-featured young woman with a head full of bouncy blonde curls leading a group of bath-robed men into the bathhouse. Newt averted his mortified gaze, eyes boring a hole into the steam rising from the water. He wriggled a bit in his restraints, uncomfortable and blushing furiously as he heard low chuckles, gasps and wolf whistles but settled down with a touch of relief as the woman’s wide, green, somehow familiar eyes slid away from him and she clicked her fingers imperiously to catch the leering guest’s attention. Her high-heeled sandals clicking decisively on the tiles and her pink silk robe as she rounded on her group, chin held high and accenting birdlike features. “Now if you’ll look to your left, you’ll find clean robes, towels and scents with which to bathe. The exterior tubs are recommended more for the enjoyment of those who wish to put the water’s stimulating properties to good use,” she winked almost flirtatiously at several younger members of the group but even from his thoroughly distracted position, Newt could see an unease in her actions as she glanced toward the pool above which Newt was suspended. But the attendant continued nonetheless, “The larger pool is designed for bathing and relaxation only, so please bear this in mind before you choose your tub.”

The blonde woman’s face scrunched slightly then, as if experiencing an unpleasant headache and she added, hands folded in front of her and one delicate hand gestured in Newt’s direction without her turning, “Oh, and a word from the master of the house – anything else that might be…tempting in this room is for decorative and educational purposes only and should not be touched,” her gaze turned hard and slightly warning then, Newt feeling something odd tremble down his rigid, curved spine as her tone became almost silky, “under any circumstances. And that anyone who ventures otherwise will be dealt with quite harshly indeed.”

Newt shivered again then, pressing back into the plant growth, not due to the warning in her tone but more from the way that the words did not seem to be her own. In fact, he got the feeling that he knew just who they reminded him of. The young bard was adequately distracted however as the vines twining his chest and throat tightened and twined in contradictorily arousing and worrying manners. He heard a few more scattered chuckles as the vines’ movement was noticed by the guests but he pressed his stinging eyes shut again, focussing solely upon breathing in and out evenly through his nose lest he suffocate or begin to panic in earnest. Newt could sense the creatures aching to come to his defence again, fierce, simple minds casting out their fury on his behalf and even more complex, comparably humanoid ones, plotting their escapes and tactics. He pushed his forced calm out to them as best he could – the possibility of putting them in danger working as an excellent incentive to keep himself subdued. 

“Enjoy, milords, I will be back shortly with refreshments,” her bright green eyes flickered to Newt’s as she clicked her way toward the door, pausing just briefly to make the contact as she added: “for all of you.” 

Newt would’ve attempted a small nod, were he capable of such movement, but with the vines pinning his mouth, chin and neck, he just offered a minute narrowing of his eyes, hoping that his thanks at the minor, comparative kindnesses she had offered him – even under her master’s orders – had been successfully communicated. He couldn’t be sure, but Newt got the slightest feeling of relief and pity touch along his senses as the woman left, not in the same way as the creatures did though – weaker and undeniably more human, like a tickle of her well-spring laughter and the green of her shimmering eyes over his mind. It was startling and invasive but still more welcome than the sick, silver Gift that Grindelwald had worked upon him before. Divines above did he hate this place and every sanity-forsaken mage that dwelled within it. Though, watching the sweaty, quickly naked men descend swiftly into the tubs, pools and depravity, he decided that one didn’t have to be a mage to have no sense of privacy, decency or tact.

Some of the younger men – Amikan in appearance for the most part – had done as the woman had instructed and migrated to the smaller tubs and begun such activities that it made the young bard flush all the darker and avert his gaze. Unfortunately, he didn’t find much better sights in the largest pool in front of him as two older men, silver-haired and fit-looking joined a younger blonde in the steaming water that Newt had so recently occupied. All were shamelessly naked and Newt supposed that this was likely part of the ‘lesson’ that he was supposed to be learning from this whole experience. Not feeling particularly inclined to pay attention to much around him, let alone ‘learn’ from it, Newt closed his eyes again, breathing deep and even, trying his best to focus upon the snorts, chirps, growls, grumbles and squawks of the beasts nearby to distract himself…

_There was a mating pair of Ghanda birds in the trees outside in the garden, twirling about each other in a courting dance and flurry of radiant pink, scarlet and blue plumage._

Unfortunately, the male’s excitement and need to mate had Newt focussing back upon his own throbbing need, the aching arousal trapped in the complex webbing of tight tendrils and exposed to the gazes of strangers. He swallowed thickly, moving onto something else, anything else…

_There was a common tabby cat prowling the roofs above, lounging in the way of indolent, contented felines upon the hot tiles, rolling about on her back and thinking longingly of catching the gaudy, frolicking birds high above but settling more realistically upon a family of moles burrowing too close to the surface in the shrubbery below…_

No good either, as the sensation of hot tiles upon his furred back and padded paws only brought Newt the human back into his own body where the heated tiles and the salty sweat of his pale, exposed skin could be felt even in his hanging position. Something else now, ANYTHING ELSE….

_He was in the heated glass terrarium of a mage’s workshop now, the room around him humming with magic – dark and heavy like treacle on his tongue, in his lungs – sweet, delicious and intoxicating. The Chupacabra – he, Antonio – could sense the powerful Gift of the room’s occupants. Both of them. No, all three. Three, as another entered. The Chupacabra’s wide bright eyes staring out from a blue and red, thick-hided face but not focussed upon the humans of the room and instead, the snack of delicious blood left out before him in a delicate bone crafted dish. The metallic though summer-sweet, fear-tainted taste of human – his favourite – a rare treat only brought to him when the pale human returned stinking of that same delicious concoction…so intoxicating…._

Newt pulled himself back into his own body then, not wanting to linger in the presence of a creature that sought out the taste of human death and dark magic, drinking it in liberally as his nature compelled him to. He didn’t feel fear of Antonio, nor disgust as he knew most would – Newt knew better than to blame the creature for desiring what he had to sustain himself on. He wouldn’t blame the Chupacabra for coveting blood any more than he would a wolf for wanting fresh meat. It was just their natures. But that didn’t mean that he wanted to soak up the blood and dark magic as Antonio did – not in the presence of the very man responsible for the situation Newt was trying so hard to escape in the only way he could.

Speaking of which, Newt’s eyes jolted open, blinking and bewildered as he felt water splash warm and deliberate over his feet, he looked down to see the younger guest – a man with long blonde hair and hooded grey-green eyes leaning slim, braceleted arms on the pool’s edge just below him.

His long, pale lashes fluttered in deceptive innocence as he looked up at Newt, a finger trailing the water lapping over the edge of the tiles, “What’d you do to get up there, handsome? And how much to get you back down so I can have a go instead?”

Newt blinked, brows furrowing but not being able to venture any sort of answer, bound and gagged so thoroughly as he was. The man grinned, flicking another spurt of water at him as his long, tanned legs kicked out languidly behind him in the water, a muscled, slightly reddened looking arse bobbing just above the surface of the water that seemed to be in a very deliberately provoking manner toward the older men behind him. Newt didn’t know what to make of the other young man until he laughed, a light, genuine sound that threw the befuddled bard further.

“Oh, it’s like that is it? Not used to it yet? Tough break, our master can be harsh if you’re stupid but you’ll find it more than worth it in the end, you’re getting the best treatment in this place, lucky sod,” he winked before adding, “Name’s Sebastian, by the way. I get the feeling that I’ll be seeing you around from now on,” his mischievous eyes flickered to Newt’s bound, leaking cock and the vines encircling his neck, trapping his mouth and made a face, “or not, hard to say, really, but however stubborn you decide to be, good luck with it.” 

He kicked off the side and swam gracefully back to the older men where they resided on the other side of the pool, slipping onto the bearded one’s lap and burying his face into the side of the man’s neck, licking a trail across his shoulder blade and whispering into his waiting ear. It took Newt a few moments to realise that the bobbing movements that the two men were making weren’t because of the water but because the young blonde had slipped himself down onto the older man’s cock and was languidly fucking himself on it. Newt swallowed. The bearded man glanced over at Newt, met his eyes with a conflicted expression before shrugging in apparent acceptance and speaking low to the other two men. 

Newt felt the curl of tension in his chest – unfortunately not constricting the twin curl of arousal enough to abate it – do another nervous tightening until his already straining lungs felt like sandbags in his chest. The cause of said distress was the sudden interest with which both older men in the pool were observing him. He didn’t know what Sebastian had said to them but whatever it was apparently hadn’t been in his favour. Newt would’ve glared at the other young man had he not felt a sudden brushing along the curve of one arse cheek, a vine, one that seemed to be peppered with tiny, razor-sharp thorns. He pressed his eyes shut in further mortification and a twinge of stinging pain was introduced to his already aching, straining body when the very most tip of something thicker and almost bulbous teased the line of his crack. It almost tickled but for the awful anticipation of what the vine might do to him, especially as both of the silver-haired men were now approaching him, a smirking Sebastian in tow.

“See? No markings, piercings or adornments yet. Hasn’t been claimed, so I’m sure the master won’t mind you sampling him,” the blonde's voice was smooth, sweet and enticing and Newt could barely control his squirming when he felt heated gazes on his body and heard a low groan rumble a man’s throat.

“Find it hard to believe the white spider would leave a morsel out like this unless he _wanted_ us to have a taste,” he grinned between his companions and Newt and the bard’s limbs jerked, his breath growing shallow and becoming desperate as he shook his head to the best of his ability. The man who had spoken laughed, low and throaty, before he leaned himself back against the pool steps, where the water shallowed but allowed a good view of Newt’s squirming form all the same. He jerked his head at Sebastian toward Newt and intoned in a gravelly voice as he began to fist a sizable length, “Give him a good going over then, boy, make sure he’s worth the trouble. Warm him up for us.”

Sebastian’s white teeth glinted in a blinding white grin as he swam to the edge, heaving himself up onto his knees before where Newt hung and reaching out one hand to stroke over the arch of Newt’s foot whilst the other fondled the vines at his hip in a testing manner. Newt took one look at the smirking, scheming blonde knelt up on the tiles before him, took a deep breath and despite the vines binding them tight together, kicked his feet out into the other’s chest. With an undignified squawk and a splash, Sebastian fell bodily into the pool and Newt took the opportunity to work at wresting his arms from their bindings- and nearly from their sockets– all the while levelling the older man with a hard stare, daring him to try something. He knew he was in no position to make threats but he couldn’t face any of this knowing that he’d submitted while doing nothing to prevent it.

To his dismay, the only result this gained from his guests was amusement from the man with his hand so readily stroking his own cock. Amused eyes met Newt’s and the young bard muffled a half-hysterical yelp just as the vine probing his backside found his as-yet-untouched hole and began to press in, if just a little. He could keenly feel the tiny, scratching, _stinging_ thorns catching on his rim and he let out a sob, legs twisting wildly and causing unpleasant crunching noises as his shoulder joints clicked and protested the strain being put on them. He almost didn’t care though, more focussed on the slick, spiny green length pressing into him ever so slowly. It was with a contradictory care that the thorns seemed to retract – almost as if they sensed the danger to where they were penetrating – and Newt sobbed anew, dry heaves of his stuttering chest as, though the penetration neither ceased nor slowed, the acid burn pain of the stinging thorns was gone.

“He’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he? Got you all set up, nice little piece of ass, such a sweet mouth, bet it’d look much better stretched around something else.”

The man’s voice broke Newt from his hazed reverie and he lowered watery eyes to meet cold, aroused ones. The man's thick lips curled in a cruel smile, “I’m sure he won’t mind us teaching you a few things, eh? After all, the girl did say you were here for _educational purposes,_ didn’t she? What better education than this?”

He stood, thick, erect length bobbing as he waded through the water, glancing back at the scowling Sebastian with a leer that set Newt’s trapped teeth on edge, “See, what you gotta do when dealing with fighting ones like this, is to give em something to distract em while you get to work," he chuckled low and dirty, “I would suggest a bit of cock to soothe on but it seems the old white spider’s got his mouth nice and busy already, I guess I’ll have to get creative then, won’t I?” he gestured to Sebastian and the blonde clambered back up onto his knees by Newt and at a muttered assent from the older man, tentatively brought his tongue to the leaking, angry tip of Newt’s cock. The bard choked on the vines stuffing him, the one secured in his mouth and the thankfully thornless one probing the very edge of his hole and tried desperately to move. He didn’t know which way he was trying to move but all were prevented as the older man took hold of the loose section of the vine tethering his feet and tugged it toward him, Newt’s toes dipping into the edge of the water and his whole body straining at the increased pressure. His ribs screamed at him, he needed more support to be able to breathe properly... divines, he couldn’t breathe!

Though this would never have usually aroused him, Newt could feel the constriction, the tightness, heat and panic of it all making his pulse strum faster, searing the sensation faster through his body than ever before. He could strongly taste the sweet nectar being coated onto the inside of his mouth from the vines, cloying and intoxicating, like a swig of that sweet summer wine he and Leta had stolen and sampled from her father’s private cellar when he was ten. He’d choked and spat out the bitter-sweet, so-strong-it-almost-burned liquid and Leta had laughed at him as she swallowed hers down just as easily as the nectar now seeped into Newt. It seemed to be making everything that bit easier now…bubblier, warmer and almost pleasant in his suffocating haze. 

Looking down...the sight of all the greenery encasing him and in desperate need of distraction, Newt’s mind drifted to Pickett. His loyal friend and companion was sorely missed in that moment. Where was he? What had Grindelwald done to him? He couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be. Newt would’ve felt – as he’d felt the Dragon-mother Aehon when she’d gone…wasted away and died, leaving her kit for Newt to care for, be cared for by... Pickett was his constant companion, the one who had always been with him, helped him to pick out the suitable sap to make his lute sing in just the right way…the comfort and the one face, that tiny green face and onyx eyes that he could focus upon as his vision hazed out of clarity.

The hot air he could drag into his straining lungs through his flaring nostrils wasn’t enough: the panic and the position were suffocating him. The feel of Sebastian’s plush lips wrapped around the swollen head of his cock where it peeked out from its green prison...it was tight, wet heat and agony. The vine pressing ever more insistently into him from behind, slicking his passage with something sticky and sweet – so strong he felt it in the back of his throat to join the taste in his mouth - to ease its way, it was some small mercy that it was providing the lubrication but none at all that it was just thrumming and fanning the sparks of pleasure he felt into a roaring inferno that was consuming him. His aching, constricted lungs, sore, spiteful skin and treacherous cock where it twitched and seeped for all the attention it was being given. He felt the vines in his mouth begin to sprout then, something like a bulb or flower or hells, even a thorn – he didn’t know, was too out of it to figure it out – wedged itself firmly in behind his teeth, filling the cavity and stretching his jaw wider than ever. Newt moaned around the sensation, feeling the corners of his mouth crack at the strain and the soft sting of blood copper his lips, the liquid seeping into his mouth and soaking into the greenery invading it. 

“Oh yes, two fresh little boycunts, so fucking sweet!” he heard a rhythmic slapping of flesh and pants of pleasure as the two older men got themselves off at the sight of his torture, “Go on little Sebby, suck him down, get your tongue in there like you did with me earlier, oh fuck! Little sod always knows just what to do.”

He heard Sebastian’s smug voice humming as he tongued along Newt’s slit, using one finger to gently roll back his foreskin to reveal the leaking angry red head further and sucking on it with fierce, cruel determination. But even the muted, restrained pleasure of the clearly practised young man’s mouth on all he could reach of Newt’s cock wasn’t enough to distract him from his inability to breathe. He dimly felt the tension on his legs releasing but couldn’t focus on anything enough to figure out why or how. His eyes slid shut and this time not even the abrupt loss of contact to his cock was enough to bring him back, his body bucked, trying unconsciously to seek out the sensation again but to no avail.

He drifted…

The young bard could hear muffled voices, shouts actually, they must have been with how stifled everything else was. The only thing he managed to focus on properly was when the restraints holding him up suddenly dropped away and his feet slammed hard into the tiles but before the rest of his body could impact as solidly, something smooth and, when he pried his eyes open again, green, caught him in a ropy cradle. It was the vines, the plant-creature-thing…whatever it was…it had caught him and gently lowered him to rest on the tiles with his sore feet dipping into the soothing pool water. He flailed a little, rolling bodily onto his side and coughing harshly, bringing up bile-tasting spit and traces of blood onto the floor and relishing in the simple ability to _breathe_ again. His whole body throbbed with pins and needles, the feeling tingling painfully across his heightened senses and only serving to make the throbbing sensations in his cock, throat and tender nipples pulse all the more cruelly. 

Newt realised numbly that there were no hands or lips on him now, no one nearby at all, in fact, just an empty pool that rippled and steamed as it had done before the torment had begun. He managed to prop himself up weakly on gangly elbows and knees, his half-hard cock bobbing between his legs as he looked about, seeing the pile of towels from before was absent – he imagined that the guests had left though he didn’t know why. Edging back on the tiles and flipping onto his tingling, though empty backside he took in the wall of greenery with wide, expectant sea and tear-stained eyes. It was writhing with life still but the movements were now much more subdued, the tendrils and leaves hovering over him in an almost protective way. The leaves formed a barrier to either side and keeping the water to his back, the only route of entry – or escape – being through the pool. The longer he looked, the more Newt could convince himself that three of the large, blooming red flowers at about head-height above him seemed to be regarding him like eyes, shining with something akin to curiosity, possessiveness and concern all rolled into one.

Feeling awfully foolish, he regarded the flower-…eyes? with apprehension before venturing, “D-did-” he coughed harshly, trying to clear his scratchy voice and barely succeeding as he tried again, “did you make them go away?”

Though no verbal answer seemed forthcoming, some of the plant wall to his left shifted and Newt gasped aloud as he saw Sebastian, hung upside-down by his ankles, blonde hair flopping and stuck wetly to his face, eyes wide and terrified. Newt scrambled to his feet hastily, wincing as every part of him complained and told him what a bad idea that was: he swayed but managed to stay mostly upright as he fixed his gaze on the flower-eyes, “No, no, I don’t think that hurting him is going to help anything…unless, of course, you’re planning on eating the both of us?” he tilted his head, focussing his fried senses on the aura he sensed so close by before saying slowly, “No, you don’t feed that way, do you? No, it’s-” he sucked in a breath and reached up a hand to touch two tentative fingers to his split lips and brought them back dotted with spots of red, “-blood, you don’t need it but you like it, huh? That’s what made you let me go, isn’t it? Because I bled on you?”

He sensed acceptance and huffed a sigh but also felt a twinge of relief even if everything in him was still screaming at him to get out of this hellish place as soon as he could. He scrounged up a thin, bird-bone brittle smile and offered, “Thank you. For letting me go, but…I really should be going now.” His gaze flickered to Sebastian in an indecisive manner before he added, “Please, don’t hurt him. He doesn’t deserve it. Not really.”

He saw Sebastian’s eyes narrow at him almost suspiciously before he squawked around the vine gagging him as he was flipped and placed on the tiles, though the vines binding his arms to his sides did not release.

Newt, not wanting to tempt fate by lingering, turned and stepped back into the water, aiming to wade to the nearest side so he could leave. He let out a shout of his own as a vine caught his ankle, tugged his leg out from under him and pulled him up to hang several feet above the water’s steamy surface. Before he could get too uncomfortable, a flurry of vines and leaves came up underneath him and created a makeshift meshed hammock that supported his entire body. It was surprisingly comfortable but even as Newt tried to relax as much as he could given the circumstances, he felt yet more vines twine about his wrists, ankles and then, alarmingly, his still semi-hard cock. His shout of surprise was muffled as a significantly kinder gag than before wrapped over his mouth, a large leaf plastering itself in a skin-tight seal around his jaw, head, neck and cheeks. It wasn’t as invasive as the last one but Newt couldn’t quite be thankful for the mercy as a thin tendril of vine began to tease his slit in the same way that Sebastian’s tongue had. He tugged futilely at the vines holding him and felt his eyes nearly roll into the back of his throbbing skull as the thin vine pushed past his foreskin and _into_ the head of his cock. He writhed, moaning and panting, hips pressing himself down into the hammock and away from the sensation but the lattice only pushed him back up again.

Too much... _Too much!_

Mercifully, the vine withdrew to merely circle and fondle the tip, playing with the fat beads of pre-come residing there and slicking them over it, making it shine red and hot. Two vines were caressing his balls, tugging on his aching sack in gentle, firm movements that had pressure building and his whole body thrumming vividly. A leaf, delicately traced with sharper edges than any before, appeared to help wrap his throbbing length, the sharpness had his heart hammering at the danger it presented to his most private – or not so – area. 

They were careful though, ever so careful as they encased him, the sharp edges just grazing the sensitive insides of his thighs and drawing thin, paper-cut lines of blood which were instantly absorbed by probing vines that then came to wrap Newt’s legs and spread them wider than ever. The tendrils circling his length and massaging his sack suddenly increased in their intensity, working hard and almost milking him as they moved in just the right ways to bring him closer to the edge. Newt’s fingers clutched at their vine bindings in a white-knuckled grip, clenching hard as he came, his seed spattering white and hot from his cock and up his stomach, his abused length softening maddeningly and mercifully in the plant’s clutching grip.

Unfortunately, the vine that was still in Newt’s arse didn’t seem to deem its explorations complete just yet and the spent young man half-sobbed into the moulded-leaf muzzle as it pressed deeper. He felt more vines come up to caress the lines of his pectorals, curling in between them almost as if they were the cradle a woman’s corset made beneath her breasts as the tendril-tips fondled the pink nubs of his nipples into pebbled points of intense, excruciating sensation. The vine inside him fattened, thickening as it sought out a certain spot, one that produced a near-scream from the bard when it sent jolts of shattered white-heat through him, fracturing lines of red light before his eyes and ruthlessly bringing his spent cock back to life. He had run out of tears it seemed, likely too dehydrated and expended to produce much more fluid than what was being coaxed from his abused member.

The vines caressing his chest and stimulating his nipples were what ended up bringing the exhausted bard to completion the second time. The tendrils encircling and tugging the pink nubs sprouted with those tiny, scarily-sharp thorns that rent and stung the over-sensitised flesh, scratching the very tips and bringing enough droplets of blood forth that the sucking, hungry vines deemed it enough temptation to begin suckling with what felt like a hundred tiny mouths. It proved too much for Newt very quickly and with a muffled yell and a buck of his hips into the coiling vines, he came, the significantly smaller spend almost painful as if left his length. 

It was a while longer, when he heard the thumping of several pairs of urgent footsteps on the tiles, that the plant-creature released him and Newt fell unceremoniously into the water. He was out of his own head again before he even hit the surface.

…

The gap was once again indefinable but it ended with the touch of soft, warm fingers brushing along his forehead. Newt jerked forward, back, any which way to avoid the heaviness that plagued him and touch that invaded his senses. He didn’t want any more touches – friendly, pleasurable, violent or otherwise. They all hurt now. He heard familiar soothing, hushing tones and the soft hum of a lullaby that he remembered, half-remembered and half-sung from a friend’s lips on the road so many times it felt like as much of a fragment of his own past as it had been hers.

“Tina…” his lips moved numbly and he heard a stifled gasp, a splash and silence before a cool, damp cloth pressed to his dry, cracked lips and wiped away the dried flecks of blood that had crusted at the corners there along with a tacky coating of saliva. He swallowed thickly, smiling dimly as he felt a cup pressed to his lips and clean water tipped into his mouth by careful, patient hands. Newt realised that he was propped up on heavy cushions and despite his general apprehension of everything concerning his recent circumstances, he found himself relaxing, if just a little, as the voice hummed a little longer as soft hands fed him more water which his disquiet stomach and dry throat accepted gratefully.

“Shhh, it’s alright there, honey, you’re okay now, just lay back. See if you can open your eyes in a bit for me?” 

Newt’s brows furrowed and he blinked his gummed eyes open to see a bleary impression of blonde curls, big green eyes and soft, pale features. He blinked a few more times and, eventually, the pretty face of the attendant from the pool came into focus. The bard gasped, jerking against the cushions and her grip on him both, relieved when she released him and let him scramble up and away from her as his feet kicked up silk sheets into a rucked, slippery mess. He didn’t get far, not with the cool metal links that clasped his wrists and bound them to the bedframe above him, He threw his gaze upward, frantically searching out a weak link or escape and huffing a frustrated, panicked breath when he found none. Of course he didn’t. This was no doubt Grindelwald’s work again and he was beginning to believe that the man didn’t do anything in half-measures, not willing to let his ill, deluded intent go to waste.

“Hush now, you’re right to think that and I know you’re bright enough to know that struggling right now is just gonna make things worse for ya, so I’d just sit back and relax if I were you.”

Newt turned his frown to the blonde woman’s forehead and it deepened, furrowing the lines between his brow all the deeper, “Would you?”

Her blonde brows rose, “Would I what?”

“Relax?” Newt muttered, tone a touch more bitter than he meant it but not really caring as he looked down at himself and took in the crimson silk coverlet barely covering his lower half after the struggling that he’d done.

“I don’t think that really matters, do you?”

“I suppose not, but I can’t help but feel that if you’re going to give me advice, I’d like to know if it's coming from a place of experience.”

She chewed a pink-painted lip, placing the empty crystal goblet on the table nearby in what Newt recognised as being the room he’d been allotted before, though the bedding seemed new. He barely repressed a shudder to think of why the plain cotton sheets had been replaced with luxurious silks that mirrored those of Grindelwald’s chambers. Was it an apology? A bizarre sort of punishment? A fetish? Whimsy? Newt didn’t dare venture a guess.

“You ain’t got no right to be asking anything about me here, Mister Scamander,” she said in a low, rougher voice that betrayed a slight Peorden accent, but she swallowed it down in her next words, almost as if ashamed of the slip, “I think it might be best if you didn’t dwell on such things.”

“How’d you know my name?” he asked, puzzled, as he hadn’t ever told Grindelwald his family name and certainly hadn’t had the opportunity to say anything at all to the attendant the last time he saw her.

She sighed but answered nonetheless, “You’re a noisy thinker. Your mind’s a messy, loud, odd thing and I couldn’t ignore it even if I tried.”

“You have the Gift?” he ventured and she nodded, lip still caught between her teeth in clear discomfort even as her green, shimmering eyes remained guarded.

“Not anything like Master Grindelwald has, I know that’s what most people think when they learn what I can do but it ain’t like that.”

Newt shifted on the bed, trying to sit in a position that would alleviate the strain on his shoulders and ribs but was forced to pause as a sudden coughing fit overtook him. His bare legs curled up into himself, arms tugging unconsciously on their restraints as he instinctively sought to nurse his aching chest. Being stretched out and flipped around like a worm by a bird seemed to have done more damage than he had thought. The attendant looked at him in sympathy, pursing her lips minutely before reaching to the side table and retrieving a steaming clay cup that she urged toward his lips. He scrunched his eyes shut and turned his face away, not willing to let himself be drugged or poisoned as Grindelwald had done to his friends.

“This ain’t like what he gave to Teeni-...your friends, honey, it’s just tea. It’s got a little kick extra in there with honey and Adi juice to help with the aches and soreness but nothing bad.” She caught his chin firmly, tipping his jerking chin toward her and pressing the cup firmly to his lips again, “Come on now, I know you’re freaked out right now and you got every right to be but there ain’t any use in being stubborn when there’s someone here trying to help you.”

Newt felt the warm brush of her mind on his and despite himself, he allowed both it and the drink, opening his lips but keeping his mind focussed as solely on the action as he could. Trying to block out any and all things else that might leak through from him to her via her Gift. Clearly, Grindelwald wanted her to be the first person he saw when he woke up and he wasn’t naive enough to assume that the reason why would be superfluous or simply for his comfort. The mage wanted her to get in his head in the way that _he_ couldn’t. Yet, anyway.

“Oh, stop being like that – you’re lucky! There are much worse ways to be introduced here than with the master’s favourite pet, ya know! Not all of us were that lucky,” she fixed him with a hard stare, “I know it may not seem like it to you, but he’s going real easy on you because he wants you to be safe here – happy even. Don’t test him or make this worse for yourself because you’ll regret it. Trust me.”

Newt stared at her, disbelieving and wide-eyed and she tutted before sighing, “I know you probably think I’m crazy and maybe I am-” a disproportionately melancholy expression crossed her face then, before she carefully masked it again before Newt could comment, “-but it don’t mean I’m not right.”

She set down the cup with a bang and stood, brushing down her pink silk robe rather unnecessarily and went to leave before Newt found his words again, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”

She turned abruptly to face him, expression inscrutable and kohl-painted eyes wide and shining brighter than ever, her head tilting as she regarded him for a few moments and her expression softened, “No, you don’t, do you?” her pale brows furrowed slightly, “You see things different. Its why they love you,” her pale hand gripped the edge of the door tightly as she took another step back, “It’s not good for you, honey, but there ain’t no way for you or anyone else to stop it either….so I guess I’ll just tell you to be careful with it all. As best you can.” 

Before Newt could question her further, she turned on her heel and left, going to shut the door but being halted in the motion as Grindelwald stepped through. He didn’t spare her more than a sideways, knowing glance before he closed and sealed the door behind her. Newt didn’t move, too heavy-feeling and sleepy to muster up futile struggles against either his solid metal chains or the dark mage who had likely put them on him.

“I see you’ve had quite the afternoon,” Grindelwald’s voice was deceptively conversational as his mismatched-moon eyes roved over the red marks, bruises and less obvious signs of what had occurred with apparent satisfaction. A small smile curled his pale lips as he sat upon the edge of the bed beside Newt, his dark leather trousers in place still but a burgundy-hued, loose-fitting shirt tucked into them, black leather boots adorning his feet as usual. A silver-ruby earring glittering on one lobe, a thin silver chain connecting it to a piercing higher up, white-blonde hair tucked almost boyishly behind the ear to expose the adornment. The whole image was overwhelmingly disarming but Newt tried his best not to let it make him forget what the man had done to him already.

The mage stroked a hand softly through Newt’s hair, the other shamelessly tugging down the silk coverlet and feasting his eyes in obvious delight and interest over Newt’s reddened, soft, slightly swollen member and the tight pucker that was revealed when Grindelwald lifted his cock with one finger to inspect what lay below. Newt’s lips pulled back in a near-snarl and he pulled his thighs up to block the contact and the pervert’s view of the damage he’d orchestrated. The bard rolled as far toward the wall and away from Grindelwald as he could manage with his bound arms but knew the futility of it as Grindelwald merely smiled and gripped his thigh, wrenching them apart firmly and swinging himself up to straddle Newt, kneeling high above him and using his knee to pin Newt’s thighs apart.

“Get off me,” Newt growled, voice hoarse and sea-stained, red-rimmed eyes furious in a simple preference to being afraid. He was tired of crying, tired of struggling and pretending to be fiercer than he was. That wouldn’t help him here. But that didn’t mean that his instincts were any more avoidable than they had ever been. He wasn’t one to submit to this kind of treatment even if it meant going against his usually peaceful demeanour. Much like the creatures he befriended and revered, Newt would fight when cornered, when underestimated, when humiliated and abused. He wasn’t going to make any of this easier for Grindelwald or his ilk.

Even if that meant it would be harder on him too.

**A/N - feedback craved and appreciated! Feel free to make requests and criticisms, I'm open to suggestions of all kinds. (Including the ones where you suggest I get an exorcism performed on myself. You would NOT be the first to say it...but then again, you all read it if you got this far so I guess we're all going to hell. Enjoy the ride :) ;))**


	5. And with a kick is victorious

“You surprised me with your behaviour this evening, little bard,” Grindelwald commented lightly though with that same contradictory weight in his mismatched eyes that told Newt he was merely playing a part. Toying with him. “My pet isn’t one to release what I give it unless I explicitly instruct it to.”

His head tilted to one side as his hand brushed lightly over Newt’s cheek, down his neck to place a palm flat above his heavily thumping heart. He could feel it, Newt could tell from the way Grindelwald curled his fingers just slightly forward and dug short, blunt nails into the reddened, irritated marks left by the plant-creature in question. “I’m once again assuming that your _knack_ is what convinced it to be lenient with you, to take such a liking to you... Would that be about right, little one? What do you think, hmm?”

Newt glared up at his forehead, silently fuming but restraining his irritation, fear and humiliation, “I wouldn’t call what you put me through _lenient_ by any stretch of the imagination, Mister Grindelwald.”

He got a chuckle in response, Grindelwald’s spare hand moving up to brush softly, possessively through Newt’s mussed, damp copper curls. “Oh, but I think you know better than that by now. My attendants should have given you a better perspective on your situation – I offer you some of the finest comforts and services here because I want you to be content. If you choose to reject my kindness, then the ramifications are entirely your own doing, Newton.” The pale ends of Grindelwald’s hair tickled Newt’s flushing cheek as the elder leant in close, watching with almost enraptured eclipsed eyes as Newt’s lips parted to speak.

His voice came as less of a snarl than before but despite its strained quality, Newt still managed to sound almost steely. “Content? If you wanted me to be content, you would let me go.”

“Oh, but how can I do that when you feel _so good_ beneath me, little bard?” Grindelwald murmured, his lips brushing Newt’s ear and the younger man shuddered, a full-bodied, uncontrollable thing that pressed him just that little bit tighter against the mage momentarily. “I offer you freedom from the whims of strangers and the chance to hone a power to call your own. Now tell me, sweetness, after getting just a little taste of others’ desire for your body -- and their blatant disregard for your wellbeing -- do you not wish there was a way to call upon your Gift without needlessly risking your precious wild things?”

His gaze seemed earnest now, eyes coaxing and tone empathic beyond anything Newt had heard from the man before. Newt ventured reluctant eyes closer toward the blazing lunar ones. Grindelwald was still speaking, “You lack proper control but that needn’t be the case. Imagine if you could call for their aid only when you truly desired it to come? A way in which you might explore ways to defend them as they do you? You’re strong already, I can tell, it’s how you were able to encourage my pet to release you, even if only for a little while. That sort of inherent Gift and trust…it's _rare._ Almost unheard of, I’d wager, and certainly with creatures.” 

Newt kept quiet, body lessening in its squirming under Grindelwald’s, his face turned away from the one drifting inches from his own. Grindelwald sighed, head dropping until his lips pressed hot and close to Newt’s neck, light kisses peppering the expanse of pale flesh up to his clenched jaw. Newt merely pressed his eyes tight shut and swallowed, throat bobbing under Grindelwald’s lips and the thumb that came up to trace his Adam’s apple.

“I test you because I need to know your limits and thus far...you have proven that you have a capacity for greatness. Not only as a Gifted young man but as someone I might deem worthy of keeping at my side,” his lips pressed to a particularly sensitive spot at the junction between Newt’s ear and cheek, the tickling, tingling sensation pulling a soft, barely heard gasp from Newt’s lips as he arched his head away as best he could.

“Or perhaps on your knees.”

A finger brushed sensuously over Newt’s lips and he felt paralyzed to stop it. Grindelwald’s bracing hands at his jaw and in his hair prevented any escape from the intensity the bard could feel _burning_ into the side of his face.

“You. Just. Need. To. Learn,” each word was emphasized by a dotted, borderline violent kiss to Newt’s skin, moving from that tender spot by his ear to his cheekbone, his nose, brow bone, forehead and then finally down to his lips.

The hold Grindelwald had on him was too strong to pull away from and though Newt tried, none of his attempted kicks or knees did much more than exhaust him and cause his body to practically melt into the soft pillows below him. Whatever the blonde woman had put in his tea was clearly more than just a relaxant – more like a drug to drain him of what remaining energy he had. At Grindelwald’s behest, no doubt.

“You want your freedom and you shall have it, once I’m sure that I can trust you.”

“And why should I trust _you_ , Mister Grindelwald?” Newt threw back at him, finally managing to jerk his head away and opening his eyes to stare at Grindelwald accusingly, “the only thing I’m convinced of is that you’re a manipulative bastard who gets off on controlling people. I think you’re just some bored lordling with more power, lust and ambition than compassion. I fail to see how that makes you any better than the men you claim superiority over.”

Grindelwald’s eyes pierced his, and despite the risk, Newt looked right back, projecting his defiance as best he could whilst pinned and exposed as he was underneath the other man.

Grindelwald’s expression smoothed to one that was almost infallible but his voice betrayed the very slight anger that Newt could feel vibrating through the body pressed against his, “You are too quick to be making such judgements, and too young by far, little one.”

“But not so young that you would consider _this_ inappropriate,” Newt retorted, ducking his head to gesture at the way Grindelwald’s body was intertwined with his own. He swallowed, the heavy, thick feeling in his throat and burning his eyes belied by his disproportionately steady tone. “You wouldn’t let me go even if I told you that I would never work for or with you no matter what you offered – if I’m wrong, go ahead and let me leave,” he raised his brows expectantly, revelling, if just a little, in the one-up on the arrogant older man.

Grindelwald regarded him for a time, eyes unfathomable before he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head, “I suppose you are right, Newton, but can you blame me for believing that treating you with a softer touch might encourage a more tempered response?”

“I thought I already told you that I appreciated honesty more than niceties, Mister Grindelwald.”

“And yet you still refer to me as Mister,” Grindelwald mused, seemingly humouring him. 

“F-force of habit, I s-suppose,” Newt replied dryly, voice cracking just slightly as his breathing picked up of its own accord, the forced calm he’d been working on until now beginning to splinter under the weight of a lustful, apparently delusional man straddling his naked body with only the man’s leather trousers preventing a very much unwelcome contact. The young bard could feel the hard length pressing up against him, had felt it for some time now but had hoped that if he managed to talk some sense into the man or perhaps delay him long enough, it might go away and he might lose interest. Evidently, Newt was inadvertently doing something to prevent that. Though what, Newt couldn’t guess. 

Grindelwald leant back then, still straddling Newt’s hips and pinning his thighs, even more so now with the redistribution of the older man’s weight on him and Grindelwald’s hands laid themselves deliberately on his strained shoulders before slowly sliding them down his sides – prompting another shiver- to grasp his waist and hips. His thumbs softly caressed the light trail of hair along Newt’s stomach that led to the base of his cock and the younger man could feel a cold, sharp tremble running through him, particularly along his quivering, sucked away stomach. He was painfully aware not only of his exposure but of how weak he was – over two days without food and all the strain, exertion and recent drugging...the young bard doubted that he’d be able to put up much of a fight even if he weren’t chained to the bed like an offering to the old-world gods.

“No matter, you shall be staying here under my tutelage and that of my colleagues. You’ll learn much and perhaps make a profit if I deem you to be deserving of it. I shall not allow any more interference from my clients, but don’t take that to mean that I won’t punish you should you step out of line. You’ll soon learn that there are much worse fates than what you have experienced thus far.”

Newt shuddered as he felt Grindelwald’s fingers gently caress his inner thigh, one grazing the flaccid shaft of his cock, not seeming to want to stimulate it – just unnerve him. It worked, Newt wriggled a bit further up the bed, rolling his hips and thighs in an attempt to throw the older man off of him. Grindelwald’s grip on him turned tight then, his hand fisting around Newt’s length and slowly, almost lovingly began to stroke his shaft. Newt squirmed, eyes tearing of their own accord as he tried harder to work his way out of the grip and away from the face hovering so close to his own. Newt pressed his smarting eyes shut as Grindelwald’s touches grew more wandering, his thumb teasing Newt’s slit, the bard keening as his overspent cock came back to life in the mage’s hand, rising and hardening in what felt like an expert grip. The older man’s lips nestled themselves in the hollow of Newt’s throat, kissing, mouthing and teasing with a flash of white blunt teeth that worked and worried the flesh until it bloomed red and sensitive, stinging.

His voice felt trapped in his throat as he felt Grindelwald’s hips jerk forward and quiet moans left Newt’s unwilling, panting lips. The leather of Grindelwald’s trousers created delicious, unfair friction against the sensitive skin of Newt’s inner thighs and brushed teasingly against his sack. “Oh, Newton, Asha above, you’re just made for this aren’t you? You’re so good for me, so sweet and wanton. I know you want to pretend otherwise but you like this and you’ll learn how to properly pleasure yourself.” The hand that wasn’t working Newt’s length brushed lower, fingers pressing to a hot and slightly puffy rim so much that Newt hissed and tried to squeeze his legs shut only to have them forced wider and Grindelwald moved forward.

“What else have you had in you, little bard? A tentative finger one night by the cooling campfire when you knew your friends were asleep? You must have pleasured yourself in their presence. What was it, four years in their company on roads and in inns,” two fingers pressed up to the first knuckle with no resistance but Newt whined nonetheless, hips bucking helplessly, caught between the fingers around him and the ones pressing ever deeper within him. He shook his head desperately at the older man, denying what his voice wouldn’t and Grindelwald chuckled, a bright grin stretching his lips as a lock of white-blonde hair fell forward into his slightly flushed face.

“I bet you had to stuff your mouth to stop from moaning out and waking them up, didn’t you? What was it? Your own fist? That sweet little yellow scarf of yours? Anything to keep you quiet, eh? I bet you started to like it after a while, didn’t you? The sound of your own muffled moans, the feeling of something filling your mouth, on the edge of choking you and the thrill of someone catching you like that with one hand fisting yourself and the other playing with your pretty little hole, just to see what it would feel like.” 

Newt felt like something in him was being pried apart.

Despite his tightly shut eyes and the tears that ran from them, he knew, just _knew_ that Grindelwald was in his head again. The words he spoke were true and it made it so much worse than if the man molesting him and stroking his insides was just spewing generic, uneducated suppositions. If he didn’t seem to know every dirty, hot, sweaty, embarrassing night that Newt had used his solitude in the early hours of guarding the camp he and his friends had made to alleviate just a little of the tension that resided in him. Thinking of different encounters and people he’d met on his journeys as he did so, shoving his hand swiftly into his unlaced breeches, sat against a tree or laid out on his side on dewy grass or dusty forest floors.

The sweet smiling red-headed barmaid who’d said she liked his playing and thrust her prominent cleavage toward him as she leant over the bar-top to smile at him. He’d been more distracted by the sensuous red curve of her lips and the way her brown eyes sparked a certain way in the firelight.

The young courtesan when they’d played at the house of a mayor of a small hamlet. He’d been perhaps a year or two older than Newt but strongly built, a gold-embroidered tunic stretched flatteringly over a broad chest, sharp blue eyes and a surprisingly soft voice that belied his stature. Newt had imagined just how it would feel to have those big hands on him and it had been the first time he’d tried filling the ache that resided in him with a finger curiously probing into himself.

It was a guilty secret and having it spilt so bluntly to him now…it was utterly humiliating.

A louder moan spilt from Newt’s lips as Grindelwald’s dexterous fingers curled within him, all three of them now and he arched his back, arms pulling tight on the chains binding him in place. He heard a low, pleased chuckle before Grindelwald rubbed at the spot again, twisting them slightly in time with the strokes of Newt’s aching, flushed length. He could feel himself edging closer but before he could even think of doing anything about it, he was distracted by the release of his arms from their chain bindings. Or at least, they released him from the bed: the cuffs remained around his wrists but the end that had been connecting them to the bed now writhed free.

It moved in a serpentine manner, lengthening and lashing once around his throat before slithering quickly down his flushed body in a cool trail that alit his senses further before Newt’s hands were drawn to rest against the middle of his abdomen. He was left in confusion for barely a moment more before the trailing end lashed out and wrapped itself around the base of his cock, securing his aching sack and binding his cock tight, drawing it back up until the rosy red tip was smearing pre-come onto his stomach. Newt couldn’t control the whine that left him at the prevention of his relief and also the pain the unnaturally cold chain was causing his oh so very sensitive flesh. His hands instinctively reached down, trying to release himself from the cold, binding metal, to ease the ache of an arrested orgasm, but as he did so, the chain tightened about his throat, links digging into the skin Grindelwald had so recently pressed kisses into. He couldn’t touch himself and despite hating himself for being so weak, he raised pleading watery sea-stained eyes to meet Grindelwald’s malicious eclipsed ones. 

“Please-” his hands jerked again involuntarily and was cut off with a gasp as he simultaneously half-choked himself and gave an agonising tug on his tortured cock and balls.

“Once you’ve learned some manners, a little gratitude perhaps, then I might let you come,” Grindelwald regarded him with amusement for a few moments before his posture went rigid at a succession of three sharp knocks on the door, followed by two softer ones. He sighed, seeming irritated. Yet a gleam of excitement shone in his eyes as he rose and slid off of Newt in one smooth movement. There was barely a creak of leather as he stood beside the bed, gazing down at Newt in apparent consideration.

“But in the meantime, refresh yourself,” his speech was brisk as he gestured toward a covered tray on the table that Newt was almost certain had not been there before, but then again, it could have easily missed his distracted notice. “Your induction here will begin in earnest in the morning. Do not fool yourself into thinking that attempting to escape will get you anywhere but into more trouble.”

Newt shifted uncomfortably on the silken sheets, curling his legs up to cover as much as he could with the awkward, agonising position he was in. As if noticing Newt’s glance toward the covered plate, Grindelwald stepped toward it with a smile.

“Ah, but of course, my apologies, I shall leave you to your supper. We wouldn’t want you to faint from hunger, now would we?” Grindelwald’s voice was smooth and unctuous, bordering on painfully sarcastic as he lifted the lid of the tray, shifting the table closer to the bed where Newt was curled and revealing several slices of warm, fresh bread that smelled strongly of cheese and garlic. The sight made Newt’s empty stomach growl. Grindelwald opened the door with a wave of his hand and stepped out swiftly, not sparing a backwards glance as he strode from the room.

The first thing Newt looked for once he was alone was something to cover himself with other than the thin silk coverlets that _reeked_ of Grindelwald. The black-vine rose smell mixing alluringly though cloyingly with woodsmoke, amber, leather and something implacably sweet. He scrabbled himself up without the proper use of his arms, hissing at the increased pressure on his abused genitals and neck, and reached toward the bread, cracking open the warm crust with trembling hands, bringing it to his nose to sniff carefully. He couldn’t smell much past the cheese and garlic that were melted into it but despite the growling, gnawing hunger in his gut, he lowered it and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying his best to focus.

He had borrowed the enhanced senses of creatures before and guessed that if there were poison or magic in the food, a dog, cat or other such animal’s nose would sniff it out better than he could. Newt threw his frayed senses out, out to the garden and the surrounding rooftops as before. He limited his contact with the basement creatures as much as he could – not wanting to incite a riot that could cause more harm. Despite his efforts, he couldn’t control how the garden’s inhabitants reacted to him – he heard a general, multi-species outcry as he touched their minds. There was squawking, squeaking, growling and humming from outside the window of the room he was trapped in as the beasts felt the pain and desperation, the humiliation and fear seething just below the surface of Newt’s forced, fractured calm.

It broke.

He felt the birds swoop and screech in the sky, clawing at anything they could – tiles, trees, cloth, earth…

The common tabby cat from before leapt upon a nearby noble who had been striding past her roof perch and the poor fool got a flying face-full of angry fur and vicious claws.

He felt the horses in the street and stables nearby begin to buck, to trample and nearly stampede despite the attempts of their handlers and riders. The panicked neighing filled Newt’s ears and he pressed his bound arms desperately against his forehead, curling painfully, awfully tight in on himself, wishing he could put his hands to his ears to block out the sound despite knowing that it would make no difference. The sounds were inside him, as they always were.

Newt hadn’t experienced a reaction this dramatic before, had never felt it so strongly, so keenly as he did now. 

Newt drew in ragged, shaky breaths, curling in tighter on himself and trembling in full-bodied, violent waves. He felt another wave of fierce warm wetness pressing at the back of his eyes and didn’t have the wherewithal to resist it. The tears streamed hot and quick down his flushed cheeks. Images flickered before his eyes. Sensations almost as fresh as when they had occurred burning across his nerve-endings.

Sebastian’s big blinking eyes looking up at him as he worked his plump lips around the rosy bobbing head of Newt’s erection.

Keen, dark eyes on him as a vine pushed in where it most certainly shouldn’t, the laughing, lustful, mocking words echoing in the crowded room. The fact that the others had all seen what was happening, seen his shame, his humiliation and not thought anything of it more than another entertainment in a glorified whorehouse.

A powerful leather-clad body pinning him, stroking him, binding him and speaking vile promises, truths and implications to him in a sultry tone, such an encouraging demeanour – as if he knew just how to tempt young men into whoring themselves to him. He did, Newt knew. Could easily imagine every poor soul who worked here had been convinced, enticed or coerced to the point that they thought as the blonde girl and Sebastian did – that Newt was lucky to have been raped by a deluded sadist’s pet plant-creature whilst strangers got off on the sight. 

Oh gods, what if he ended up like them? What if he started to believe that what Grindelwald did to him was a favour, a mercy? Newt wasn’t sure if he could live with himself if he ever grew to believe that.

It was the sickening thudding _craaack_ of a stallion’s rear hooves connecting with a man’s flesh that brought Newt back to himself. His eyes flew open, and without thought he threw himself toward the barred window, craning to look out as far as he could into the courtyard garden and just catching the glimpse of a black-cloaked body striking the grass. He could smell the scent of horse, straw and dirt and blood as the stallion did, could feel the agitation swelling his chest from kin that he only vaguely recognised to be himself - the same agitation that had caused him to kick out at the dark figure running past him. Newt watched on in horror from the stallion’s – Jultan’s, he soon recognised – perspective as several men converged upon the courtyard and surrounded the sprawled out, groaning figure in black on the grass.

Even from Jultan’s perspective, Newt couldn’t see any features, only a hood, a cloak and what looked to be a mask underneath it. It was the flash of mahogany eyes that caught the rosy evening light when the man was pulled roughly to his feet that caused a barely-stifled gasp to leave Newt’s lips. 

It was the thief. 

He wasn’t quite sure just how he knew, but he did and a jolt of guilt surged through him as he realised that his outburst had hindered the man’s escape, had injured him, perhaps fatally if he didn’t get treatment or healing soon. And from the rough way the group dragged him across the courtyard, Newt doubted he was being taken anywhere good. Newt caught a glimpse of a familiar head of white-blonde hair, the glint of the silver-ruby earring in the blistered, blushing sunset light. The side of Grindelwald’s face that was visible from Jultan and Newt’s perspective was grim, but a perverse glee shone in his silver-side eye. He was clearly pleased to have this thief in his unsavoury clutches. The stabbing guilt burrowed deeper as the group dragged the sagging man through a sliding side door and down, out of his and Jultan’s sight.

Jultan looked away as Newt left his side and senses and the bard flopped down to sit heavily upon the edge of the bed, panting and wiping absently at the drying tracks of tacky tears that stained his flushed cheeks. Every movement had rubbed the skin under the chains raw and sore and as he came back into himself, he became increasingly aware of the agony aching in his gut and balls. He needed release but couldn’t quite reach himself unless he was willing to choke the life out of himself. Newt scolded himself for thinking of such things when he had just caused a man to be potentially fatally injured and captured by the same sadistic madman who was responsible for his current position. Newt curled onto his side, finding that the foetal position eased a little of the tension from the chains. Sluggish brain realising the obvious embarrassingly slowly as he used the new slack and position to attempt to grasp his bound cock. That was when he felt the hum of power shiver along the chain surrounding his neck and gasped, choking in panic as the chain collar tightened until white lights flashed before his eyes. He writhed, fingers scrambling to reach the neck chain to release it but only succeeding in making matters worse as his vision swam black.

The only thing he was aware of before unconsciousness claimed him again was the loosening of the chain just enough to let in shallow breathes. It didn’t stop the drawing of the dark claiming his sight, however, it hovered over him like buzzards over a felled traveller, dark and flickering and disconcertingly loud in its screeching roar. When it receded, some time later, Newt gasped in the burning breaths through his tingling throat, his sight clearing as he flailed and rolled, knees striking the floor as he fell on all fours, head pressed between bound arms against the cool tiles. A few stray tears trickled from sore eyes and down his hands to plop silently upon the floor. He spent a long time simply focussing upon the wonderful feeling of being able to breathe, the chain about his neck merely resting once more, but this time he didn’t test the new freedom by attempting to touch his mysteriously still-hard cock. Falling back to lean against the edge of the bed, he glared down at his aching, angrily flushed cock in its chain cage, fingers twitching against his chest, itching to touch and relieve the agony but not willing to risk choking himself into the darkness once more. Another lesson to be learned. 

He suspected that the chains were enchanted, to keep him hard, to keep him wet-headed, agonised and wanting until Grindelwald returned. His hole felt stretched and soft and empty, almost longing for the violation of the mage’s fingers to continue, to fill him just as he usually would himself if he weren’t bound in such cruel fetters and magic.

As Newt was often wont to do when he was trying desperately to distract himself from something – in this case the stress, arousal and desperation of his situation – the bard’s mind began to spin words that formed like wool on a spindle and then let them flow and escape from his lips. They came soft, slow, then fast and desperate as his voice strengthened despite the abuse on his vocal cords and spirit.

_“The tale I tell is too old,_

_Lost in seas of crushed ice cold,_

_Caught in shoals of silver ropes,_

_Ensnared by salted, empty hopes._

_And as I sink silent, drifting to an end_

_I fear I'll wither, so pick back at the skin_

_Till the fetid fetters release me to that sin._

_'Cause nothing harms me in this dark_

_It’s the light that stings so clear, so stark_

_I can taste the sounds that trickle down your spin-dle spine…_

_Oh that this heated, harmful heart weren’t mine.”_

The tension in Newt eased as he sang, the words blurring into one another, blending and bleeding as he sang them over and over, some stained with his tears and others tinted more by an unhealthy apathy than the rage that coloured his tears. Eventually, he ran out of voice to sing with, his already depleted energy levels begging him to give in and slake his hunger and thirst with offerings left for him. Poison or not, Newt knew that he was going to have to eat and drink at some point unless he was planning to let himself waste away to the point that even if an escape attempt presented itself, he wouldn’t be able to take any advantage of it.

He crept up awkwardly, stiffly, carefully to his feet, hunched over to alleviate the pain his bound state still caused him and picked up the bread in two hands, fingers crunching slightly into the cooled crust before hunger overtook him and he savaged a huge bite from it. Newt half-moaned into his mouthful of cheesy, garlicky deliciousness, feeling the taste bursting across his bereft taste buds, clearing the last of the lingering taste of Grindelwald from him as he dug into the roll with relish. He took tentative sips of the water left out for him in between bites and took some relief in the lack of fogginess or any other such negative effects that he had suspected might come. Despite the temptation to finish the meal in record time, Newt forced himself to slow down, to savour each bite and ensure that he didn’t waste the apparently safe offering by throwing it up again later. He ate over the course of the next half-hour or so, taking small nibbles and waiting for his deceptively full-feeling stomach to level with him before eating again. Once done, he licked the grease and traces of crumbs from his fingers, feeling decidedly stronger and clearer of head despite his pressing arousal and discomfort. 

Newt jerked and scrambled back when he heard the door click open, the locks releasing and Grindelwald stepping back into the room. The bard shuffled himself into the corner away from the bed but, more importantly, putting the dresser between him and a direct approach by Grindelwald.

The older man eyed him with amusement, seeming to _radiate_ malicious glee. Though this time, it didn’t seem to be solely from revelling in Newt’s predicament. No, Newt had the guilty suspicion that these new high spirits were to do with the capture of the thief. A capture that Newt had unwillingly taken part in.

The young bard couldn’t focus much on that however as Grindelwald approached him, eyes roving over Newt’s fully exposed form where he half hunched in the corner. The mage stepped invasively close and without so much as a word or sneer, reached forward and took a hold of the chain surrounding Newt’s erect cock and tugged him forward by it. A choked, animalistic sound left Newt’s lips at the surge of tingling pain and stinging arousal that shocked through him; the younger man nearly caved in around the point of contact, unable to do anything but gasp and choke out tortured breaths as he was pulled back toward the bed. Grindelwald pushed him down onto it with surprising care considering the harsh grip on his genitals and kept his palm resting upon Newt’s heaving, bare, scarred chest. A simple instruction. To stay. A warning.

“Now, now, Newton, did I not tell you to rest?” his voice was chiding but his mismatched eyes glimmered with something else that Newt could not quite discern. He stared back obstinately at somewhere about the mage’s midriff, not dignifying him with either eye contact or a verbal response.

“Perhaps I should not be reprimanding you, however – you assisted in ridding the greater world of quite a persistent pest,” a low chuckle rumbled the man’s throat as he crouched before Newt so that the bard was forced to look at him again, “Not even the great Graverobber was expecting to have his chest nearly caved in by his own steed as he attempted to flee with my stolen property.”

Newt shuddered violently, still hunched over with his eyes averted to the ground between Grindelwald’s boots as the mage's hand cupped his chin, a long thumb stroking gently over the curve of his jaw and cheek. “You did a good thing today, little one, even if it was not intentional.” Newt swallowed thickly, pressing his eyes shut momentarily before the smooth voice continued, “And for that good deed, I shall not only allow you release earlier than I intended, but I have a special present ready just for you.”

Newt’s eyes snapped up then, hopeful and fearful in equal measure, and Grindelwald laughed, stroking at Newt’s cheek once more before releasing it. “No, not quite the release I suppose you are hoping for in the long run, but one I’m sure you’ll appreciate all the same.”

He pushed at Newt’s chest then and despite himself, Newt allowed the fall into soft pillows and silk sheets as Grindelwald leant forward, his lips pressing to Newt’s peaked nipple as his hand searched lower. Grindelwald began to suckle, tongue swirling and licking the rosy bud into painful sensitivity before he moved to the other one, his left hand coming up to continue playing and torturing with the abandoned nipple. Grindelwald’s right hand began to work Newt’s length again, clever fingers pressing and caressing the raised red flesh between each loop of chain, the throbbing flesh trapped and pushed up almost hungrily through the constriction into the touch, the dual sensations on his nipples and cock working together to send throbbing tendrils of arousal akin to that of burning pins and needles through his body.

“Please…” Newt’s voice came out hoarse and reedy and Grindelwald raised his head, trailing tendrils of white-blonde hair brushing along the bard’s tender nipples and drawing a hiss from him. “You said-” he cut himself off with a gasp of relief as the hand working his cock went back to the base, fiddling with the chains tightened there, two fingers digging tantalisingly just under the coil locking his balls. They were swollen, tender and stinging and all he could do was look down at Grindelwald’s smirking face with wide, beseeching eyes.

“I suppose you have been rather deserving of an early reprieve, little one,” the mage murmured and Newt nearly choked on his next breath as Grindelwald loosened the chain, only the tight grip of his hand keeping Newt from the pleasurable release that was bubbling and boiling within him, just on the very most edge of spilling over into the sadist’s waiting hand. “But just this once, mind you, can’t have you getting too complacent, now can we?”

Before Newt could even attempt a reply to that, Grindelwald released his iron grip on the base of Newt’s cock and pressed the tip to his mouth, lips closing around it in a tight, wet glorious heat and suction as Newt tipped over the edge. Grindelwald took it down with clear practice, though when he leant forward to face Newt, the bard saw that his lips were tightly closed and felt puzzled until the older man’s lips pressed to his and he was assaulted with the salty tang of his own orgasm. He half-choked, jerking his head away and his hands up to shove at Grindelwald now that they had more mobility but the other man simply gripped him by the hinge of his jaw, pressing long, spiderlike fingers into the depression of his teeth and forcing his mouth open. A good deal of his own semen was deposited in between his lips and Grindelwald sealed it in with a fierce kiss, preventing him from spitting it out. Supposedly soothing fingers stroked along Newt’s throat, encouraging him to swallow. His eyes were wide and painfully dry as he did just that, figuring that swallowing away the taste would be better – not only to rid himself of the uncomfortable sensation but to appease the man claiming to be rewarding him. 

Grindelwald leant back once he was sure Newt had swallowed what he offered and smiled, licking a stray smear from his own bottom lip with a tongue that was surprisingly crimson against his chalky pale complexion. “You taste divine, darling. Couldn’t help but think you might want a taste.”

Newt didn’t reply, turning his gaze away to the wooden ceiling above the other’s shoulder, trying not to retch and to keep his breathing even. He felt spent, more so than before despite only having come once. He supposed it was because of the intensity of it all.

“What? Nothing to say, little Ræv?” Grindelwald coaxed, thumb soothing over Newt’s cheek, brushing just under his eyes whilst the other traced the bruises and reddened marks underneath the now loosened-off chain wrapping the column of abused skin. “Are you not the bit least curious as to your reward?”

Newt raised red-rimmed eyes to stare levelly at the light sweat beading Grindelwald’s temple though his words came out slightly thicker than usual as he tried to speak without exacerbating the bitter taste clinging to his tongue and the insides of his cheeks, “I dread to think.”

Grindelwald sighed out a low laugh, “Save your dread for more worthy matters, Newton. This is an honour and it shall ensure that no other will dare to touch you unless in direct usurpation of my will.” A bitter, self-satisfied grin pulled back his lips, “And there are so very few willing to do that nowadays.”

Newt looked back in silent question before venturing a soft query, “Is that why you have kept me around? Because I defy you? Would my obedience be what encouraged you to let me go back to my own life?”

An almost pitying look crossed his expression as Grindelwald ran a hand through Newt’s now coarse copper curls. “Oh, it’s not quite so simple as all that, sweetness, but that is not of import right now.” He stood, eyes watching Newt carefully as the younger man kicked himself up against the wall, back pressed against the cool stone and legs curled into the protective cradle of his bound arms in a futile attempt to hide himself away again.

Newt’s curiosity got the better of him as Grindelwald summoned an ornate black box to his hand, as if from thin air, the container expensive-looking and lined with silver inlay in dizzyingly complex patterns across its surface upon the side that held the lock. The symbols moved and swirled across the surface faster than Newt’s eyes could follow as Grindelwald waved his hand over it, causing the box to click open. The bard leant slightly forward, eyes seeking the contents and feeling something in his chest clench tighten when he saw two thin needles, a small pot of ointment of some kind and what looked to be two small silver earrings. Newt’s eyes shot up, alarmed and wide to Grindelwald and he shook his head fervently.

“No, you’re not piercing my ears,” he kept his tone as firm as he could and his glare sharpened as Grindelwald let out a laugh, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of the bed in front of Newt, placing the box open beside them. Newt eyed it as if it might somehow pierce him simply by being in the same room as him. Though, going by what he’d seen of Grindelwald’s powers so far, he wouldn’t put it past the mage.

Grindelwald fixed him with a patient look and spoke softly though derisively, as if to a child, “They’re not for your ears, sweet thing -- at least, not yet. We may get to that later, when you might appreciate the finery of such things.” He brought a hand up to cup Newt’s pectoral, fingers brushing his side along the span of his prominent ribs as his thumb caressed Newt’s nipple, the meaning clear. Newt jerked back, reaching his bound hands up to slap at the older man’s hand only for them to be caught by an invisible force and forced up above his head to be pinned to the wall behind him. The bard found himself completely unable to move, pinned like a fly in a web as Grindelwald began to draw the objects from the box, going for the ointment-like substance first, scooping out a small amount and bringing it up to rub it over the hardened points of pleasure until Newt was squirming involuntarily in his invisible bonds. The mage massaged it into both the peaked rosy buds and the surrounding flesh, pulling, twirling and tugging on both as Newt moaned low and helpless in his throat, eyelids fluttering as his hips and chest fought to cant upward.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the movements of Grindelwald’s hands or his own flushed, reddened nipples, the way they shone with the greasy, bitter-smelling substance from the pot even as delicious sensation tingled throughout him from those two tiny points of stimulation. What broke him from his trance-like state of pleasure was the sight of Grindelwald wielding the first needle, razor-sharp and shining silver as he brought the tip of it to rest against the edge of Newt’s left nipple.

“No, no, please don’t- I don’t want this. If this is supposed to be a reward, I’d rather go without thank-you-very-muchly-” his pleas were cut off as Grindelwald shushed him, one hand cupping Newt’s pectoral while the other held the needle in place at his nipple, in preparation to pierce.

Grindelwald’s eyes were warm and a touch amused but the most prevalent emotion in them was still that awful anticipation. “Hush now, this will only sting for a moment. It will stake a claim that shall keep you safe from the unsolicited attentions of others during your stay here. This is a gift, be grateful.” 

Before Newt could snap back at the mage just where he could shove his gift and gratitude, the sharp tip of the needle punctured his flesh, the slim metal protrusion slipping in with ease and pushing until it poked out through the other side. Newt’s eyes rolled and watered and he barely stifled his yelp of pain by biting down hard upon his bottom lip, his head arching back and pressing his body forward into the sensation as much as the magic would let him. He stared down in morbid fascination as Grindelwald pulled the blood-slicked needle all the way through and out of the other side before fumbling the piercing from the box – a small, delicate silver hoop that was twined together by eight intricate, insanely thin coils that glistened and shimmered the hues of the room as they caught the light. Within those coils were nestled eight minuscule Lapis Lazuli, each glinting from a coil of their own, barely touching yet intertwining. Like the eyes of a spider staring coldly back at him despite their downward trajectory following the pull of gravity that rested the ring against his heated skin. Grindelwald unhooked one sharp edge of the intricate ring and hooked it into the small hole that had been created in Newt’s peaked nipple, the feeling of it sliding through being a bizarre, violating but nerve-tingling sensation before it was sealed closed. Newt gasped as he felt a brief, intense searing of heat and when he looked down more closely, he could no longer see the join where the two halves of the ring connected.

It was permanent.

And then the strangest thing happened, as Newt stared down at the ring that pierces him, the interconnecting, infinite seeming rings spread and curled. They shuddered and the ends split and turned to talons, eight sharp ends sprouting black and stark against silver and pale flesh alike. As Newt watched, he felt the splinter tips – the _legs_ – pierce his chest again, in eight tiny pinpricks along his pectoral muscles, digging and burrowing until he could no longer feel the split on the surface pain receptors. It was too deep to feel anymore. He couldn’t hear, could only focus his wide, sea-stained eyes on the thin red welts being gouged out by the tiny legs of a silver-pitch spider.

A hand made its way into his sight then but before it could make contact it froze, shuddering as if pressed up against a sudden, invisible pane of glass.

He felt as though he were choking on something then, a hot, suffocating feeling that was consuming his chest and throat, muddying the troubled waters of his head and he suddenly found himself able to move again, jerking forward, arms somehow freed and catching him to heave on all fours. The burrowing in his chest did not stop but his ears faded back into focus and he was able to take in the sudden tripping, frantic chanting and his eyes took in Grindelwald’s startled face as he was trapped some feet away, sprawled on the floor with a hand outstretched.

Newt shuddered once, jerked and then a sound was torn from him that he didn’t even recognise. All he knew was that it tore his consciousness from him before the silver spider could claw its way back out of his chest. But he could feel it. It cocooned itself away below its entry point, somewhere deep and somehow hollow. It burrowed down and sealed itself to stay.

 **A/N – Hey, sorry the slow updates, I’ve now finished all my deadlines so they should come quicker from now on! (hopefully) Hope this is cohesive so far and it’s not too cringey. LOYA**


	6. A voice in the dark

The knife that was plunged into his right thigh was not nearly as painful as the constant ache in his ribs but the intensity and immediacy of it was surely a fecking good contender. The old white spider smiled a damnable, insufferable smile as he wrenched the black glass blade free and Percival did not give him the satisfaction of an outcry to accompany the movement. He spat blood from his split lip and heaved himself up from where he’d been hanging half-indolent in his chains to offer a wide, borderline feral grin as the pompous prick inspected the blood caked under his previously perfect nails with obvious disdain.

“You know, it would be much easier for you if you simply told me where you hid it. I would execute you swiftly and humanely and we would be finished here in a matter of minutes.” Those dangerous eyes taunted him and Percival avoided them entirely, gaze lowered not in deference but to avoid falling into the obvious trap – one that they both knew wouldn’t work on him anyway. But Percival made it a rule not to tempt fate, especially when it came to tricky bastards like Gellert Grindelwald.

He grinned up at the Tarranian and spoke in a pained husk, “S'pose it would, but that'd just limit this lovely time we have together, and we wouldn’t want that now, eh?”

Grindelwald arched an unamused eyebrow at him before the blur of a blow struck against Percival's barely healed ribs and he couldn’t restrain his garbled scream as searing flame was fanned through his chest by the blow. The mage had healed him only enough to prevent his death, limiting the risk of him continuing to choke on his own blood, but that didn’t mean that the fractured bones weren’t still bloody tender. Percival spat more blood from where he’d bitten his tongue and huffed a laugh, sagging again to protect his ribs as best he could with his arms chained above him. The floor was already spattered with his blood, the light stone shining starkly with a dark crust of barely drying crimson, the cellar room characteristically dim and still somehow better than some of the real shitholes that he’d previously stayed in.

There was only one reason he was still alive and he knew that the second Grindelwald found what Percival was keeping from him, the deluded bastard would kill him. It was a rare matter for Percival’s thievery to hold quite as much weight as all this – usually, it was his quick tongue or even swifter blades that got the work done. No, this time it was a matter of a supposedly simple switch: leave a decoy to hide the theft until Percival was long gone. Of course, then there had been the issue at the inn on the Larian border, his infiltration of Grindelwald’s room interrupted by the presence of the slender, dark honey-haired bard intruding on his search. The information he had drawn from the younger man had clued him in on the fact that Grindelwald likely knew he was there and that the satchel in the room was not in fact his. What struck him about the encounter, however, had not been the swift exit he’d been forced to make nor the irritation at having to temporarily abandon his task. No, it had been the lad himself.

Striking blue-green eyes that reminded him of the sea after a storm had left usually dull water clearer and almost pearlescent in its shine. A dusting of fine freckles over pale, sharp features and an undeniably gawky physique hidden under well-made though clearly over-worn clothes. He had not stank of fear even as Percival had tackled and pinned him, everything about the spymaster’s behaviour making it clear that he was a genuine threat. Despite Percival's average height and deceptively muscular frame, he usually managed to instil a decent amount of intimidation when he needed to, the mask cloaking his face and negating any attempts at recognition going a long way toward that intimidating aura.

All ignored by the surprisingly calm boy bard.

The bard had smelt of the road, of dust and tree sap, of pine and a hint of sweat from travel but there had been something else, a tang – a taste, a breath of something that he couldn’t place. If he had to put a name to it, he might call it the spring air that one might breathe in, a scent of sun-warmed air, of new life and the ever-so-slightly bitter hint of death. Not of a violent death or one of sickness, but merely the natural process of any life ending – and the life that could inexorably grow from it. It had been a strange enough scent that he hadn’t gone for his knife when he apprehended the younger man but had instead pinned him bodily to make his point. And then, and _then_ , those bright, odd eyes had focussed on his, clearly searching his features for something to fix upon - as many a man had done before him when faced with the glamor that bespelled Percival’s appearance. But unlike others, the bard’s eyes had actually found purchase upon his eyes rather than being forced away by the blur they should have been faced with.

Percival had known instinctively that though the scent emitting from the bard was not exactly that of magic per se – at least none that he had encountered before – that it was something that would no doubt ensnare the unsavoury attentions of the old white spider should he sniff it out. When he had issued his warning to the young man and left by the window, he had fully expected Grindelwald to follow him, to give chase, if only for the desire to remove a particularly stubborn thorn from his side. But he hadn’t. Percival had nearly made it across the border before he realised the reason that he could not sense Grindelwald’s chase was not due to a working of magic or any stealth, but simply because the mage was not following him at all. Realising his mistake and that the mage had not fallen for his bait, he had ridden back to the inn to find Grindelwald’s room empty, his steed gone and no sign of either the bard or his troupe. After asking around, Percival had found that Grindelwald had left not long after the bard had and Percival had been obliged to follow both men’s scent and tracks further along the road, just past the crossroads to find a camp and two unconscious and enchanted bards groggily awakening but again, no sign of the red-headed bard nor Grindelwald himself.

He had questioned the bards on their companion's whereabouts and whether they had seen Grindelwald – counting on the mage’s notorious reputation to identify him – and whilst the two Peorden bards had been quick to show interest in a rumoured sighting of Grindelwald, they had claimed no knowledge of their erstwhile companion. Percival had left them to their confusion and full purses, recognising the signs of Grindelwald’s magic lingering upon them and deciding that it would likely be better for them if they stayed well away from Grindelwald and Nurmengard. They seemed like decent folk. Despite their obvious disorientation, the portly man had offered him food and a chance to travel with them but Percival had declined, both in deference to his true task but also because he felt that if they ever recalled their friend again, they would rather he was separated from a man like Grindelwald. Percival had spurred his steed onward and eventually caught up with the tracks that led inexorably toward Teranine – the Spider’s nest – and despite his general avoidance of the city due to its web-like, ensnaring nature, he had worked his way deeper. He had originally hoped to take his quarry upon the road before Grindelwald returned to his well-guarded compound, at a wayside where he might go undetected more easily and escape before the theft was noticed.

But circumstances had changed and whilst it was not a priority, he couldn’t help but feel that returning the bard to his troupe would be a good deed, one to make him feel less dastardly about his work, at least for a little while. Being able to save just one out of the scores of people who had fallen victim to Grindelwald and his ilk. It was a rare thing when the work of a spymaster and assassin was of obvious benefit to the common-folk. His work dwelt more in the lower realms of things, the work that the army, guards and politicians found distasteful, work that needed to be done quietly. Work that involved killing, stealing, manipulating, lying and scheming. That involved scourging his old life from record and memory and hiding his face when needed; he had a collection of identities, of course, many faces to wear and disguises to don, but his most known identity remained that of The Graverobber. The name that Grindelwald coined for him and the one he had used his web of influence to spread, then encouraged all that heard it to fear and mistrust it, to fear for the imagined heathens and demons that came in the night and stole their dead to defile them - all based upon a mistake of distant past.

But, as Percival half-hung in his chains, chest aching from an unexpected, savage blow from a usually docile steed he’d had for nearly two years that had taken him down and landed him in his current situation, he couldn’t help but feel that the ill repute of the Graverobber was the least of his concerns. His priority now was keeping his satchel and its precious contents away from Grindelwald and preferably escape before the bastard found a way to extract the information from him. So, as he felt the backhanded blow strike him, sending a spray of blood across the puddled floor, he did his best to keep quiet, to resist further taunting his captor in the vaguest of hopes that he might be able to orchestrate an escape more easily if he acted more docile than his bubbling rage and frustration impelled him to. He was already struggling to breathe and could feel a thin flow of blood streaming from the wounds on his leg, the warm, coppery-smelling liquid staining his dark fitted trousers though thankfully the stab wound had not hit anything vital – more of a superficial wound than one intended to do permanent harm. Whether that would remain so was another matter entirely. 

“You’re going to tell me sooner or later. You’ve seen my work, the work of my associates – no matter your Gift, you can’t honestly expect to resist for long,” Grindelwald’s voice was irritatingly patient, cold even as his fingers twitched at his side, seeming to be itching to exorcize some kind of deep-rooted disquiet, though Percival got the feeling that the frustration did not stem solely from his silence – though it was vented onto him. “I admit I’m surprised you managed to actually steal from me in the first place. Aren’t your skills more suited to cold-blooded murder and robbing those already dead?”

Percival’s jaw tightened but he didn’t give the man any more satisfaction for how deeply the barb cut, replying with as much steadiness as he usually would simply to make a point, “Thought I’d make an exception for you. You cast aside any remnants of humanity long before we met so I would hardly count you as more than a dead man – certainly pale enough to be one.” A flash of teeth shown as he grinned bitterly “Plotting war and the destruction of entire kingdoms for personal gain, harbouring delusions of racial superiority...such things tend to realign one’s priorities.”

Grindelwald’s lip curled, “I wouldn’t expect a mongrel magician with a handful of parlour tricks and a clever little mask to understand matters of state, nor the importance of keeping the continent from falling ever deeper into the muck that mires it.”

“That ‘muck’ happens to be the lives and wellbeing of several million people,” Percival half-snarled and Grindelwald’s head tilted, his white hair flecking his pale face with tiny droplets of blood from where they had been spattered whilst knocking the spymaster around.

“You seem to think that matters,” his tone was disproportionately calm and it only served to stoke Percival’s anger further; he pulled himself up straight against his chains, tilting slightly to one side as his cracked, straining ribs protested.

“You _know_ it does, otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to maintain this façade for the idiots at court – the one where they still think you’re halfway sane,” Percival’s bloodied lip curled in disgust, “You scratch their perverted itches and they look the other way while you and your partner do unspeakable things and plot to overthrow those in power.”

Grindelwald laughed derisively, one hand that was peppered with angry scratches fisting in Percival’s dark hair where it was longest, the previously slicked-back strands now mussed over his face and sullied with dirt and blood. “I don’t _need_ to overthrow anyone, Graverobber, you know that as well as I - I have people everywhere who are loyal to me in one way or another and its far better to remain behind the scenes and positions of visible power, to give the people a more tangible icon to worship – a Banríon, Archon, emperor or king. A figurehead to play into their limited, petty view of things whilst the true talents guide happenings and opinions to where they need to be.” The mage wrenched Percival’s head back to crack into contact with the wall and smiled thin and sharp at him, “Just look at what I did to your previously _sterling_ reputation with just a few whispers in the right ears? People used to trust you and now you find yourself chased out no matter where you go in your own homeland. You had to flee the very country you swore to protect from progress that frightened you and your erstwhile masters. It’s been too easy.” 

The words were a mockery and a clear taunt but Percival worked not to rise to them – being drawn into debates and cyclical arguments with a madman would result in nothing but frustration and the potential for a slip-up. He couldn’t let himself slip. As if sensing his resolve hardening, Grindelwald stepped back from where he had nearly loomed over him and clicked his fingers thrice in swift succession, which had the door opening of its own accord. “Perhaps a little time alone will loosen your tongue? I have all the time you have left now that I have you detained.”

Percival flashed him a bloody smirk, “Don’t be so sure of that.”

“All you have are your petty taunts now, Graverobber. I hope they keep you company for however long I choose to leave you here.”

Rolling his eyes made his head ache fiercely but he made the effort anyway, “Oh come on, sure you can’t spare a servant to keep me company? Hell, even a horse’d do, I do so love a good chat with someone who isn’t a genocidal maniac.”

Grindelwald snorted derisively but then an odd look flashed across his face and Percival felt a flash of foreboding thrum though him as the mage nodded slowly, almost thoughtfully, “Very well, thief, you shall have your company, though I wouldn’t subject them to your stench so I think you shall just have to do with a pretty voice for now. Something to settle you in.”

Percival’s dark eyes narrowed as Grindelwald left the cell, the door slamming and locking with an indeterminable amount of enchantments that Percival could not begin to unravel even were his powers free. He could only take the small satisfaction in the fact that neither Grindelwald nor his lackeys had been able to remove his mask, even with all his dark magic, though Percival had been admittedly apprehensive to hear that the bastard’s partner would be returning soon from a long absence. The Spider’s right-hand man was notoriously tricky and elusive for all his infamy; one of the few others whose illusion magic was as developed and impressive as Percival’s own. He had too mastered the art of creating multiple tangible identities but his place at Grindelwald’s side had been one of the few constants about him. If there was anyone who could reveal Percival’s identity against his will, it would be the Phoenix.

Until then, Percival was left with little to do but continue to examine his cell and restraints and think of ways to either escape or move his satchel from its hiding place before Grindelwald found it.

Percival drifted into a light, pain-induced doze for some time after that. Any time he moved too much he jerked back awake with a vicious clarity, but he did manage to scrounge some decent hours of sleep, he thought. He wasn’t sure how long he was there before he heard an echoing gasp reverberate from somewhere nearby, and the thudding of bare skin on stone. Percival’s head jerked up from where it had been resting on his chest as desperate panting and a single dry, cracked sob joined the light thumps and scrapes of someone moving around, a light clinking of chains accompanying each movement. He angled his head to the left, seeing a small grate at the bottom of the wall – far too small for even his hand to fit through – and realised that there must be another prisoner in the cell adjacent to his. Percival supposed that was what Grindelwald had meant when he said he’d have the company of another’s voice.

He was pretty sure that whoever it was in the next cell was there as a trap, to lull him into a false sense of security and lower his guard, but as he heard the continued strained pants and the occasional barely repressed whimper of pain, his resolve to ignore the stranger wore away. He decided to go with the same biting, humoured aloofness he had directed at Grindelwald and called out, “Don’t suppose you see any more ways outta here than I do?”

The clinking sounds stopped abruptly before a huff of air was released, low and shaky sounding, “If I could see anything, I’d be happy to tell you.”

“Bastards not leave you with a torch in there?” Percival asked, eyes flickering to his own cell’s lit torch – unfortunately too far away to be of use in any attempts to escape. 

“Maybe? I don’t know, it’s more the blindfold that’s not being much help.”

“Ah, that’d do it.”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause.

“So…what are you in for?” Percival’s hedging words were rewarded with a low, watery-sounding chuckle.

“Not entirely sure if I’m honest. But I think it involved needles, chains and a spider.”

Percival felt a shudder ripple through him that he shrugged off with a determined roll of his shoulders that tugged on his sore muscles, painful ribs and raw wrists. “Well, the last two certainly sound familiar, though I can’t say I’ve had too much experience with needles. Is that what I’ve got to look forward to next?”

“I doubt it, unless you’ve managed to do something that warranted an unsolicited piercing, though I honestly couldn’t tell you what that was either.” 

Percival blinked, “I feel like I shouldn’t ask.”

A tired, strained laugh again, a somehow addictive sound that prompted a small smile to curl Percival’s lips despite himself – the sound seemed like a rarity and he found himself trying to imagine the quality the laugh could hold if it were full-bodied and genuine, or if a voice that soft could even produce such a sound.

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Alright then,” Percival replied, an uneasy silence followed before a sigh echoed through the grate just like the rest of his words

“Sorry-” the voice paused, sounding confused before it ventured, “Afraid I don’t quite know how to address someone in circumstances such as these.”

“Now herein lies the problem,” he hummed out, having known that this would be an obvious way to wheedle out his identities, the genuine-seeming awkwardness of a soft, slightly husky voice.

“You don’t know?”

“What?” Percival blurted.

“You don’t know who you are? Has he taken your memory?” he sounded genuinely curious, as if he had some understanding of the matter and thinking back to the poor bards he’d met on the road, Percival figured it was likely a common thing to find left in Grindelwald’s wake. 

“More that I’d rather not share it with Grindelwald’s obvious plant.”

A sharp inhale that sounded borderline brittle, “Plant? What in Asha’s name are you on about?”

“A plant, a trap, one of Grindelwald’s lackeys put here to trick me into talking. I know that’s what you are but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the conversation all the same. Rather boring in here in case you haven’t noticed,” he kept his tone clipped and light, “Just don’t do either of us the disservice of pretending otherwise.”

There was a long stretch of silence before his cellmate-adjacent spoke again, “Well, as much as it matters to you, I’m not one of Grindelwald’s fanatics, nor do I intend to ever become one.”

“I’m sure,” Percival replied caustically, and he heard another sigh and the shuffling of chains before it was cut off with a low moan and a hiss of pain.

“Bugger,” came a soft hiss under the other’s breath and despite himself, Percival responded.

“You okay over there?”

“Yes, just-” another low hiss and clink of chains, “Bit sore, they itch like mad, wish I could see to check them over.”

“You chained to the wall?” Percival ventured

“No, to the floor, by my ankle. Wrists behind my back and I’ve got some sort of bloody collar keeping me upright. Can’t move my neck all that much. Not sure if I’m going to be much help in terms of getting out of here. So…um, sorry, I suppose?”

Percival winced internally in sympathy both at the bumbling apology and at the description, counting himself somewhat lucky with his current situation even if it was straining the hell out of his abused ribs. He tried to distract the other prisoner from his predicament in any small way he could, finding that talking was helping to keep his mind off of the pain running through him with every breath. “Where are you from? You don’t sound Terranic.”

There was a pause, a long enough one to make Percival think that the other man was as unwilling to answer personal questions as he was, but then there was a soft sigh, a tired, sad sound that somehow still brimmed with defiance even in its defeat.

“Veridian Mountains, towards the Adinal area.”

“You don’t sound much like any mountain-folk I’ve met before either,” easing a little into the conversation and laying his aching head back on the stone behind him, trying to ignore his gnawing hunger and thirst by listening to that soft, slightly throaty, captivating voice.

“Not quite like that either. You see I worked for a wealthy family that originally hailed from Amus-Kai. Suppose my accent got a bit confused between where I was, where they were from and where I wanted to go.”

Percival smiled a little, the oddly phrased words striking a chord in him that was disconcertingly relatable, “And where was it that you wanted to go?”

“Not sure,” a low laugh that strummed that chord faster than before, “But it certainly wasn’t here.”

“Now _that_ I can understand.” 

“Anywhere you would call home?” 

Percival huffed an irritated breath, “What did I say? I’m not falling for that.”

He heard an indignant huff echo between them, “You were the one who asked first, the least you could do was ask questions that you have the inclination to answer yourself.” A sigh and a shift, “How do I know that you’re not a ‘plant’?” The word was used so awkwardly and used with such irritation that Percival had to laugh, a throaty, thoroughly bemused thing, before replying.

“You don’t, I suppose, but unless Grindelwald’s made the mistake of putting two plants in adjacent cells instead of near anyone useful, I think it would be safe to conclude that I’m not trying to discover any information from you on tiny mountaintop chalets.”

And there was that laugh again, more genuine and clearer than before, “And what if neither of us is?”

“Well, I’m sorry that I can’t take that risk,” Percival replied and somehow, he meant it.

The answering silence told him he wasn’t winning any friends with his obstinacy, but then again, why in the seven hells should he care what some stranger, a likely plant, no less, thought of him?

It was some time later before either of them spoke again. Surprisingly enough, it was the stranger who did so, though not directly to him. There was an almost irritable rattling of chains before a hushed exclamation of, “What I wouldn’t give for my lute right about now.”

“Odd thing to be wishing for out of anything.”

“Well, it seems a more likely thing than my freedom right about now, and I could do with the company of an old friend,” a low laugh, “Small, achievable goals seem to be the order of things here.”

“Been here long?”

Another pause, “Just a few days, I think. I got snatched on the road.” 

It finally clicked then, the familiarity to the voice and that odd unshakeableness.

“You’re the bard?”

“I don’t know about _the_ bard, but yes, I am _a_ bard. One that doesn’t happen to remember meeting you,” huffed the other, “And I rather think that if you’d ever heard me play you probably wouldn’t consider me the definitive article of anything.”

Percival frowned, “You were good but I’m afraid that our actual meeting was a bit more...aggressive than I reckon you’re supposing.”

There was another pause, then, “You’re that thief? The one from the inn?”

Though he grimaced at the petty title, Percival nodded before blinking as he realised that the bard could not see him, “That’s me...sorry about the neck.”

“I had much bigger things to be worrying about that night, trust me...still do,” a bitter laugh.

“Judging by the fact that you’re here, I’m inclined to agree.”

“I think it's me who should be offering you an apology.”

Suspicion pricked up Percival’s head and attention as he looked toward the grate accusatorily, as if he could somehow divine the other’s nature through the solid stone and metal. “Why? Finally admitting to being a plant? Albeit a rather shoddy one.”

A frustrated huff, “No – I told you, I’m as much a prisoner here as you.” A long pause followed.

“What then?”

“It's my fault you’re in here.”

“What? You think I’m here because of what happened at the inn? You sell me out to him?” he snorted derisively, “I’m a bit harder to catch than that, sweetheart.” 

He heard another exasperated huff at the slip-of-the-tongue term of endearment, no matter its sarcasm, “No, I suppose it’d take being kicked down by your own horse.”

Percival’s eyes narrowed as they regarded the grate as he would the bard’s face, were it visible. “And just how were you responsible for that?”

“I-…I gave him a fright – it was an accident and I’m sorry for it but it was still my fault.”

“Horseshit,” Percival spat, feeling irrationally angry as his muscles tensed and clenched against his heavy bonds, his leg muscles thrumming hot with pain as the wound in his leg was jostled by the sudden tension and his next words came out through gritted teeth. “There wasn’t anyone nearby who could’ve done it and I think I would’ve remembered seeing you messing with my horse.”

“I-...it’s hard to explain but trust me when I say that I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I would have helped you escape if I could.”

“Sure, sure,” Percival grunted, feeling surer by the moment that this odd little companion he’d been left with was just a way to mess with his head and throw him off before Grindelwald’s next visit. Whilst he knew that the mage couldn’t get in his head directly, he had a sneaking suspicion that his notorious penchant for manipulation and perception was coming into play somehow here – that he knew what Percival had sensed in the bard and that he was either using that to create an illusion or was else using the bard himself to do it. Either way, whatever his schemes, Percival couldn’t let himself be drawn any deeper into any of this nonsense. 

It was a shame. He’d enjoyed talking to the bard, whoever he really was, even with the evident risk. Enjoyed every soft laugh he’d drawn from him in a disproportionate measure, and unlike how he usually dealt with other people – with the bard, Percival felt as if the reactions were genuine and had no agenda. But he couldn’t take any chances. Especially when it came to someone under Grindelwald’s influence…especially one with a Gift that he had yet to identify. So when he heard the soft voice of the bard speak again, he tried his best to ignore him. However, with nothing else to listen to but their strained breathing, Percival found himself listening all the same.

“I guess he must’ve healed you since you’re still alive. A stallion like Jultan should’ve caved your chest in. I suppose that means he wants something from you too.”

Despite his curiosity over how the bard knew his steed’s name, Percival didn’t reply and he heard another sigh, “I can’t blame you for being angry…or suspicious, but I have to say that talking to you is a bloody good distraction from whatever the hell I’ve got buried in my chest.”

He heard a slightly hysterical-sounding chuckle and felt his frown soften slightly in response to the crack in the other’s demeanour, even as he steeled himself against responding.

“Itches like mad and I really don’t want to sit here in the dark with nothing else to focus on.”

There was a long stretch of silence that was broken only by each man’s strained breathing and the clinking of both men’s chains – Percival found himself wondering just what in the name of sanity the bard was talking about when he spoke of something being ‘buried’ inside him and tried to push the image out of his head. Tried not to think of those wide sea-stained eyes watering in pain or widened in fear. He didn’t know this man and worrying over a stranger sent to trick him – even if he were in real danger – was not worth his time. The quiet stretched for what might well have been hours but felt more like days and during that time, Percival worked his hardest to try to ignore the growing sounds of distress coming from the next cell – the frantic clinking of chains, the harsh scraping of skin on skin and stone and heavy, barely stifled pants as the bard apparently struggled with whatever bizarre circumstances had befallen him. Knowing Grindelwald’s cruelty, Percival couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for him – certainly not putting it past the mage to have purposefully harmed his spy to garner sympathy. The pain was likely all too real, but he couldn’t allow himself to be drawn further into the spider’s games than he already had been.

He was dozing again when there was a clomping of boots outside in the corridor, descending the stairs and moving toward his cell – at least two pairs - and Percival tensed, straightening in his chains from his slumped position, arms flexing stiff muscles and face setting in determination. But the footsteps moved past him and to the next cell. To the bard’s cell. He heard the young man’s breathing pick up as the door to his cell was unlocked and Percival wasn’t sure whether to reassure the man or bid him farewell. Grindelwald was difficult to predict at the best of times and right here and now was certainly not the best of anything.

There was a scrabbling of feet on stone and chains before a soft, drawn-out sigh could be heard, but the voice was not the bard’s and neither were the words that followed, “Poor little bird, I know they must hurt but you quite literally brought it upon yourself.” Percival heard a choked breath from the bard and a light thumping sound before a sharp cry emanated from through the grate and Grindelwald spoke again, “However did you do it? Was it your intention? Instinct? To bring my gift to life. It did not occur when I gifted you another in your unconsciousness so I can only assume that it was a focused thing, or else that you exhausted yourself. Though you seemed as surprised as I was -- but then again, you have proven yourself to be capable of deceit, have you not, little one?”

“W-what?” the bard’s voice sounded strained in some way and Percival couldn’t dampen his frustration at not being able to see what was going on.

“Why the new friend you’ve made, dear Newt, one that it seems you met before you came to be here.”

“You never asked-” the bard – Newt, it seemed – began to protest before he was cut off with a choked cry and a clinking of metal on metal. All he seemed capable of after that was choked, half-panicked whimpering and even that was drowned out by Grindelwald’s angry, hissing voice.

“You didn’t think that I might be more willing to continue to show you compassion if you warned me of thieving lowlife attempting to pilfer my belongings and murder me? Granted, I doubt you are foolish enough to think that the likes of him could actually harm me, but I would have thought that such basic traits as self-preservation might come into play here.”

Newt gagged again, coughing and just barely managing to choke out sounds that resembled words, “I-…ach-…I d-didn’t-”

“Didn’t what, sweetness? Didn’t think I was listening? Didn’t know? Didn’t think it mattered?” A laugh that made Percival’s teeth ache with how hard he was gritting them in an attempt not to cry out, to call out to Grindelwald and distract the bastard away from apparently choking the life out of the bard.

“My original intent in leaving you down here was to let you cool off after your little outburst, my wilful little Ræv,” another choked whimper, this one sounding truly desperate as the sounds of struggling intensified, chains clinking and bare feet striking stone in frantic need for air and escape. “But now I think that perhaps this might be where you belong, amongst your beasts, all trussed up, just for me. So pretty and wanton,” Percival couldn’t control the shudder that rippled through him at the words, at their tone and at the soft, scared sound that left Newt as Grindelwald continued, voice lower and almost silken, “We both know this excites you, such fine things pressed to such soft skin, accentuating all these pretty scars, your hair, your eyes…you look so perfect here on your knees, wrapped up in all the finery befitting your beauty, a true gift.”

A high keen came along with subtler clinks of metal before an abrupt, wheezing gasp of air that descended swiftly into deep, hacking coughs as Newt was seemingly released from whatever stranglehold Grindelwald had had on him. Grindelwald waited patiently for the poor bard to regain his breath before he spoke again, “I hope that your time down here gives you an opportunity to calm yourself before your lessons begin, and for you to properly consider your loyalties.”

“I’ll never be loyal to you,” the words were so hoarse, so harsh that Percival felt a mirroring discomfort in his own dry throat at the thought of the abuse the other’s had suffered, but the intent behind those words was clear – a defiance that Percival doubted one could fake. “I don’t want to be involved in whatever feud this is-” the bard’s voice caught then and he broke into another fit of coughing, one that grew so fierce that Percival heard the beginnings of an incantation falling from Grindelwald’s lips, the harsh sounds of discomfort lessening until Newt was breathing easy once more. Or easier, at least -- it still sounded shaky, though that may have been more from apprehension than the assault on his throat this time around.

“There we go, can’t go ruining your pretty voice, now can we?”

Newt’s only response was a near inaudible whimper and Grindelwald clucked his tongue quietly.

“You’re already involved, sweet thing, though I believe that you may not have intended it so,” the perverted bastard’s voice was patient and soft again, “I shall see you let out in a few days, perhaps.”

“Any time away from you would be a welcome reprieve,” came the near venomous reply but it was met with a derisive chuckle.

“You may feel differently soon enough, my dear.”

“What in Asha’s name is-” Newt’s alarmed question was cut off by soft hushes and a nasty laugh from Grindelwald followed by yet more chains clinking and the loud thump of skin on stone.

“Shhh, just relax unless you really want this to hurt?”

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Waking up in the complete darkness the blindfold enforced upon him was a terror that Newt had not expected to claw at him as deeply as it did. The feel of cool stone underneath reassuring him that he was, in fact, alive and on solid terrain rather than hanging above it as he had under recent circumstances. He hadn’t recognised at first the feeling of cool, thick silk against his face and had panicked momentarily that Grindelwald had punished him further by robbing him of his eyes, and had only been a little relieved to realise the truth of the matter. Newt had felt irrationally grateful to the voice he then discovered to be the thief; it reassured him that he had not been left entirely alone to rot, having a voice to ground him in a way the chains couldn’t quite manage despite their solidity. It had been a relief to talk to the first person in days who wasn’t enthralled by Grindelwald or trying their best to get their hands on him…or at least, if that were the thief’s intention, he wasn’t in a position to do it what with apparently being a cell away and chained to the wall. It had been the other man’s stubbornness that had half-convinced Newt that he wasn’t a trap or trick, the mutual suspicion shared between two prisoners of a sadistic megalomaniac who doubted one another’s intentions.

But any calm he might’ve had faded with each minute that passed after the thief refused to talk to him after Newt’s confession – he knew the man didn’t believe him or if he did, he understandably didn’t want to talk to someone who could well have been responsible for his imprisonment and possibly his death. Newt had been left to focus on the unpleasant sensations crawling and clawing at his body – the ache of his shoulders, knees, neck and wrists from the straight-necked position his bonds held him in. He could feel the warm leather of the cuffs binding his wrists behind him with a short chain joining them, a firm metal collar, cool and uninsulated capturing his neck, keeping his posture straight. There was a looser metal anklet, a twining, skin-tight thing keeping his left foot bound to the floor, his bare toes finding the metal hoop embedded there and fixing him in place by the limiting chain.

Newt had been conflicted, to say the least, that he had been clothed in his unconsciousness – relieved to have anything at all to hide his nakedness but decidedly unimpressed by the lack of proper coverage. He could feel soft material flowing down his bare legs, something gauzy that did little to shield him from the cool of the room and not much more, he imagined, to shield him from the eyes of anyone he might encounter. Especially as his torso was left mostly bare, only another gauzy swathe of fabric wrapping his shoulders and draping distractingly down one arm.

But by far the most prevalent sensation was that of the two piercings, the one in his left nipple aching and tingling with a constant, needy, distracting thrum and the one that had appeared in the corresponding ear, though that one felt decidedly less tender. Newt could feel a delicate chain connecting the two, laying cool against his heated skin and something heavier pulling on his pierced nipple as if it had been adorned anew. He could still feel the prominent ache that resided in his chest, the itching feeling just below the surface of his skin that made him want to claw at it until he got the damn thing _out_. But with his hands bound, there was nothing he could do to alleviate his discomfort. He tried instead to distract himself with the thief’s conversation until even that dried up.

Grindelwald’s arrival was no more welcome than the piercings themselves but as with the latter, he had no choice in it either. The first thing the mage had done upon entering his cell was to kneel in front of the blind bard and reach out to take hold the chains connecting Newt’s nipple and upper ear, teasing it forward until Newt was forced to either go with the pull or risk losing both. He’d skidded forward on his knees until he felt the heated breath of the other man on his cheek, the mage breathing out his words into Newt’s smarting ear, cool breath soothing the heated flesh just a little. The hand on the chain had brushed along it, sending tension spiralling downward and bringing the broad pad of one thumb to stroke tenderly over the nipple, fiddling a little with the piercing until a keen had been drawn from the terrified, blindfolded bard. The lack of sight had been so much more unnerving than he would’ve expected: he was unable to see the other’s intentions or gauge his reactions, to sense or see danger…it was nerve-wracking. Every touch to his trembling flesh heightened in sensation as Newt was unable to anticipate or pre-empt it, the brush of fingers over the sensitized flesh just below his pierced nipple sending a full-bodied shudder through him as the itching, aching skin trembled just a little under the touch, as if the tiny silver spider that dwelt there could sense the one who had tried to attach it to Newt in the first place…even if the animation had apparently not been the mage’s work and rather the bard’s own. 

The mostly one-sided conversation had been cut off - Newt’s attempt to deny his willing involvement in anything that went on between Grindelwald and the thief – when Grindelwald’s fingers had brushed the collar instead, the metal sealing itself tighter, cinching closed in an inescapable grip around his throat that stole his breath and stung his blind eyes with tears and stars in the blackness he’d been enfolded in. He’d panicked, kicking and lashing out in an attempt to escape the suffocation, to demonstrate his desperation to Grindelwald without the use of his stolen voice as his struggles grew weak along with his body. Newt had barely been able to focus on the words spewing forth from Grindelwald’s mouth or the lingering, lecherous touches that had drifted across his barely-clothed skin, fingers tracing the shape of his thighs through the thin material and repeatedly returning to play with the piercings, tugging, fiddling and twirling them until Newt was panting for more than just air. Drowning in so many sensations at once that he didn’t know which was worse. 

And now he knelt, still blind, only relatively more able to breathe due to Grindelwald’s hushed incantations but finding it an almost equal challenge due to the panic clogging his throat as he felt a smooth, undulating ball of _something_ press against the flesh of his thigh. He couldn’t begin to fathom what it was, only that it was unnaturally warm – warmer, certainly, than his own body and bordering on uncomfortable to come in contact with. Grindelwald’s soft threat of further harm rang strangely in his ears as he jerked back away from the mage, kicking out blindly with his free leg and feeling a little satisfaction when he struck something that made the older man grunt. His foot was soon caught and twisted painfully however and he cried out at the jolt of pain that shot through him as he was manhandled onto his stomach, Grindelwald’s cool hands running sensuously over Newt’s bare back, tingling along his spine and chasing the sensations that had the bard writhing just that little bit more under him. Further agony flared through him as his pierced, tender nipple grated against the stone floor, sending shards of white-hot arousal numbing his brain and stirring his dormant cock, causing it to twitch just a little back into life.

His lack of sight continued to work to Grindelwald’s advantage as the mage gripped the skirt-like garment that Newt wore and pulled it up until the gauzy material was bunched above his hips. It somehow felt more exposing than the previous touches he’d endured at the man’s hands due to the feeling of being revealed from under a previous pretence at protection, the thin material rubbing teasingly over his skin and heightening his high-strung nerves further. He’d always had a penchant for finer, silkier, more traditionally feminine materials - envied the beautiful gowns and shifts that Leta had worn and taken any opportunity to help her dress or braid her soft dark tresses of hair simply to revel in the sensation of silk between his work-worn fingers. It seemed another trait of his that Grindelwald had discovered -whether by magic or otherwise, he didn’t know – but the mage used it to his advantage all the same as he brushed the sarong softly over the sensitive skin of Newt’s lower back and inner thighs, using the gauze as a shroud for his wandering hands as they explored him.

He fought, of course he did, he couldn’t simply lay there and allow it to happen. Even if he knew there was no chance of him really escaping, it didn’t mean that Newt didn’t owe it to himself to try. He knew he didn’t deserve any of the twisted punishments that Grindelwald could think up for him and he wasn’t about to allow himself to be used and abused simply because another man’s perversion demanded it. So Newt fought, he kicked back at the weight resting above him, he tugged on the cuffs binding his wrists until the supple leather wore hot against his skin and he gnashed his teeth at the fingers that pressed so gently at the corners of his lips. He relished savagely in every taste of coppery blood upon his lips and tiny flap of skin he caught between his teeth, every almost unheard grunt of discomfort that was drawn by his flailing feet even as it only served to have him pinned down tighter. It made him feel as if he wasn’t giving up. As if the tremors of pleasure he gained from the touches and the force exerted upon him were not going unpunished; the pain weighing out the pleasure as penance. 

“Hush now, sweet thing. Your defiance will only bring you pain – more, perhaps, than you will relish.”

Newt snarled at Grindelwald over his own shoulder, covered eyes blazing with defiant fury that bubbled within him, almost as if it could burn through the cloth, his snarling flash of teeth fuelled by the outrage of a thousand different creatures that he could feel even through the distance and stone – the projection of his distress working differently from before. Rather than him inadvertently channelling his emotion into them, their sentiment – that fiercer worry on behalf of a dear one – flowed back into him and gave him the strength to keep struggling as Grindelwald brought the strange orb of unidentifiable material to brush against the heated flesh of his arse. He felt an inescapable force press him down as before, his cheek pressed inexorably into the stone as his entrance was drawn closer to Grindelwald, his legs drawn-out bent at the knee behind him – presenting to the man’s sadistic whim. He felt the gauzy material of the sarong slide up his back, forming a bizarre kind of veil over his head as Grindelwald pressed the strange orb against his still partially-stretched entrance, teasing his rim as the stuff began to warp and change shape.

A sharp cry escaped his lips and his eyes bugged wide behind their cloth prison as the orb transformed, pressing in and pushing him wider around itself as it burrowed deeper; he could feel his tight walls clinging to every facet of the now distinctly phallic-shaped object. It struck his prostate and his already non-existent vision flared white. He jerked, Grindelwald’s hand soothing down his arched spine, the object, warm and _wrong_ burning him with the intensity of the stretch – its length and girth torturing him. The end smoothed out to seal itself in at his entrance and he could tell that even if he were free to attempt to pry it out, his blunt nails would gain no purchase with how tight the seal was. Newt moaned, pressing his sweat-slicked forehead to the stone as a source of relief that did not come as the thing inside him began to hum and vibrate with intense, torturous heat that had shards as bright as sunlight blinding him all over again through the enforced darkness he swam in. 

The bard felt a rougher hand smoothing down his spine, starting at his neck and dragging the sarong down slowly, inch by inch and awakening his senses further until the garment brushed over his overstuffed backside, a testing press on his sealed entrance drawing a muted scream from him, tears soaking his blindfold. The hand took great care in caressing Newt’s thighs and calves until the full-length skirt was brushing his ankle and its metal adornment once more, gently playing with the anklet and tickling a single finger over the arch of Newt’s foot and the bard heard chuckling as Newt’s attempt to jerk away only caused the warm weight within him to shift. The attempt at minuscule escape was once again thwarted as Grindelwald rolled him onto his back. Newt flinched at the feel of cool stone against his sweat-slicked skin; for once he was glad that he couldn’t see the expression on Grindelwald’s face as he knew it would likely only serve to unnerve him further. Newt felt the mage thumb at the tears running down his cheeks but then another hand was softly stroking through the bard’s hair, pushing it back from his sweaty forehead and brushing at the corner of his eye just edging underneath the blindfold for a moment or so. A hand that was warm and calloused – more like his own, nothing like the cool spiderlike quality that Grindelwald’s had. He flinched back, his head cracking lightly into the wall nearby as he tried to move from the touches that were unwanted and unknown.

“W-what? Who-” a finger pressed to his lips and as before, he snapped at it, surprised when it pressed tighter, a whole hand moving to smother his mouth and chin to better silence him and control his head as it was pushed aside to arch and expose his neck. A pair of smooth lips pressed to the hollow of his throat, nibbling and tasting with a darting tongue. Newt was surprised as the movement was halted by the clucking of another’s tongue and the lips were gone, leaving the skin damp and stinging in their wake.

“Now, now, love, it’s just a little taste.”

Newt heard no reply from whoever else was in the room with him and Grindelwald but something in the other person’s expression or demeanour must’ve expressed scepticism or perhaps even anger as Grindelwald chuckled low and released Newt, leaving him paralyzed on the floor.

“Very well, later then,” Grindelwald’s hand briefly pressed to Newt’s hot and tender nipple, tweaking it once and drawing out a flinch and a cry before both of the bard’s tormenters stepped away and he heard the door open again. “I shall return for you later, dear Newt, when I think this lesson may have properly begun to sink in,” a creak of the door, “Until then.” A click of fingers, a door slam and Newt was left once more just as the humming thrumming of the object inside him increased to tear-jerking intensity and he let out a resounding scream, alone to writhe fruitlessly upon the floor. 

Newt heard another voice then, one that was contradictorily welcome but also more humiliating as a reminder that all this had had a witness. “Damnit! Damn them all to the seven levels of hell…are you alright?”

Newt didn’t reply, too busy squirming against his bonds and the torment burning his insides and stirring and hardening his body against his will, the arousal almost painful in its own right, made all the worse by the man in the next cell who had heard it all. He was surprised to hear such concern from anyone, let alone a man who’d condemned him as a spy, as someone not to be trusted. Perhaps hearing his torment had convinced the thief otherwise.

“Bard!? Bard!” A pause before a more tentative “Newt?”

Newt made a small noise of assent in his throat that seemed to be interpreted as encouragement as the thief thumped and scrambled in his cell a little to some indiscernible purpose before continuing.

“What did they do to you?”

Newt shuddered and a near-silent sob left him before he rolled a little more onto his side, finding the position helped just a little to ease his discomfort even as the thing inside him jabbed insistently at his prostate at seemingly random intervals, the vibrating keeping him on near-constant edge. “I…I don’t really know…nothing permanent…I don’t t-think…”

Oh, gods, he hoped not, his hole clenched sickeningly as if in sympathy for the supposition and he choked out another soft cry.

He heard a low curse and a sigh, “What’d you do to piss them off so much?”

Newt blinked and curled up tighter into himself, cheek pressed to the cool stone and tears still soaking his blindfold, “T-them?”

“Grindelwald and the fucking Phoenix, I’ll bet, damn two are inseparable whenever they’re here in their stronghold, or so I’ve heard,” a sigh. “Bloody Spider promised that his partner would be paying me a visit sooner or later.” 

“Phoenix?” Newt whispered.

Another sigh, “Yeah, Grindelwald’s partner in everything – magic, scheming, sex, questionable sense of fashion, delusions of grandeur – everything.”

Newt shuddered before venturing softly, “Immortal?”

He practically _heard_ the thief’s frown, “What makes you say that?”

“Phoenix…they can’t die…burn and re-born, over and over. Loyal to a fault. Mated pairs would cross a burning continent to be with the one they love…”

“Romantic way of thinking of it,” came the caustic reply and Newt’s answering laugh pained him as his inner muscles clenched blindingly around the thing humming within him and he choked out a bitter sound.

“That’s me…just an old romantic.”

He was rewarded with a weary chuckle, “Well you are a bard, aren’t you? Singing all those romantic ballads should come naturally to you, eh?” 

Newt rolled his eyes at the teasing yet somewhat familiar comment. He couldn’t help but feel grateful for the distraction from the aching, itching pains that plagued his body…along with the persistent evidence of arousal pressed between his trembling thighs. “We’re not all sappy poets you know. What I’ve done recently isn’t really singing…it's more screaming to someone else's tune.”

An expected silence greeted his words and he sighed into the still air; eyes drifting shut in his darkness. 

**A/N – Good? Bad? Weird? Badly paced? You guys let me know I suppose**


	7. The conversation is...

“Newt?”

A low hum in response, broken by a little gasp and a shifting of chains that Percival took to be assent. He went ahead with his question, hoping that whatever the two bastards had done to the bard wasn’t too dire. Though, judging by the sounds and words he’d heard from the next cell, he knew that the nature of the bard’s torment certainly wasn’t any better than most of the depravity that went on in Nurmengard.

“Do you want to talk?”

“I’m doing it now, aren’t I?” the words came out half-groaned.

“I mean to keep your mind off…things?” he breathed a sigh and grunt of his own as the gash in his thigh stretched and bled a little more as he flexed his legs to regain feeling in the aching limbs, not revelling in being forced to stand during his imprisonment.

He heard a low, choked moan and a sharp gasp before the bard’s voice rang out again, “S’pose it’d be better than nothing but I’m not sure how much of a conversation we could have considering you think I’m a spy.”

Conceding his point but not wishing to give up on the potential for a suitable distraction for them both, Percival replied: “I’m starting to believe that you may not be as much of a fanatic as I first thought -- but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to give up any information that’s going to come back and bite me in the arse.” He glared at the grate and the cell surrounding him balefully, “The walls have ears in here, after all.”

“Point taken,” came the shaky reply. “I reckon I’ve probably already said too much.”

“Maybe, but it's not like the bastard couldn’t get it from you anyway.”

“Actually, I’m not too sure about that,” Newt’s tone was thoughtful and Percival’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not too sure, really, but he seems to think that I’m…somewhat resistant to his…ability. You know, that thing he does with his eyes?”

“I know it.”

“I think it’s why he blindfolded me…among other reasons,” a bitter element entered the bard’s shaky voice, “He knew he couldn’t draw the truth from me after I resisted him before and-…” he cut off with a choked cry, his breathing turned to heavy pants as he moaned low in his throat.

“You threw him off his sick little game and he didn’t like it,” Percival finished for him and though the heavy, strained breathing continued, the moans subsided and the spymaster imagined the bard was nodding.

It was a few minutes later that the younger man’s breathing finally slowed and evened out a little, not to quite a normal pace, perhaps, but not quite as concerning as it had been. Only then did Newt speak again, “I may have thrown him off his game, but at least he knows what the game actually is.”

“You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” the words slipped out, drawn from him by the genuinely lost and defiantly resigned nature of the other man. He seemed to understand more than he wanted to and less than he needed to. Someone pulled into deep waters with no experience but who was trying his best to learn how to tread water before he drowned.

“I know that neither of us wants to be here,” came the somewhat evasive answer.

“You’d rather be with your friends?”

A pause, “Wouldn’t anyone?”

“I mean your troupe, they seemed like decent folk.”

“You met them?”

“Was following Grindelwald after he left and bumped into them while following his scent.”

“Were they alright? Hurt?”

“Seemed fine to me, but Grindelwald had done quite a number on them. They were confused as hell when I asked them about you and Grindelwald.”

A sigh, “He really did make them forget me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault-” his soft reply was once again cut off, though time with a muted scream that descended into odd scrambling sounds and then a grit-teeth yell that seemed to be more of frustration than anything else. 

“What’s happening? What’s that bastard doing to you?” the growl came out more concerned than he had perhaps intended and Percival was further alarmed when the sounds of discomfort did not cease as swiftly as they had before. Whatever the younger man was enduring seemed to be intensifying and rendering him mute but for the animalistic sounds of protest and what Percival was beginning to suspect was unwanted arousal. The panting breaths and moans sounded like they were being torn from Newt’s stubborn throat and it sickened the spymaster to hear it after Newt had been so defiant before.

He tried again to distract him, in what small way he could, “Newt? Hey, hey! Um...what’s your favourite colour?”

“W-what?” came the incredulous reply and Percival almost laughed at himself for the inane question that had sprung forth from his lips, but he persisted all the same.

“Colour- what’s your favourite?”

“Uhhhh...blue I suppose,” the words came out as a humoured exhale, almost questioning itself as well as the asker. 

“What shade of blue?” the thief persisted whilst the more rational part of his brain tried to think up something less stupid but also something that would be easy to answer without fear of the no-doubt eavesdropping dark mage.

“Is this- uh!” Newt cut off with a low, bit-back cry and another rattle of his chains “...is this going somewhere?”

“Just answer the bloody question, bard.”

There was a long pause, so long that Percival felt sure that the younger man wasn’t going to answer, but then he replied in a soft, slightly cracked voice, “Antipodean Opaleyes...the dragon, their eyes are faceted with so many different colours, it’s almost like a rainbow ...shines like n-nothing else.” Percival could almost hear the wistful smile on the bard’s face, feel the affection that laced his tone. “Most people think that their eyes are always like that but t-they change with the temperament of the dragon and... hers were always bluer than anything else...still so uniquely beautiful.”

His breathing had evened out now, sounding low and soft and Percival couldn’t help but keenly feel the smile curving his split lips. Both at the passion of the description and the diversion that the simple question had drawn from the soft-voiced, evocative bard.

“Hers?” he prompted softly and heard a shift of skin on stone in response even if it was interspersed with shaky exhales of breath.

“Yeah, Aotrom...her mother Eka had more green and amber in her eyes, bit warier I suppose, more experienced...still trusted me though.”

Despite the absurdity of it all, Percival could easily imagine the bard walking amongst even the most elusive of creatures – dragons included – could see how his soft voice and stubborn yet quick-witted nature might endear him so. Not to mention the allure of that currently elusive scent, one that had drawn Percival in, stayed his blade and apparently ensnared his usually gruff demeanour to relish in every laugh he drew from the younger man. He would like to blame magic – some sort of trickster to enthral him, but he doubted it somehow, did not feel the familiar spike in his senses of foul magic at play, nor did he feel that his emotions were preternaturally heightened. No, this felt almost similar to how his sister had once described her feelings when lost in the pangs of adolescent infatuation. Only this was certainly no time or place to be entertaining such ridiculous thoughts. He barely knew the bard and nothing could come of any small inkling of feeling he might harbour; it was ridiculous to even consider such a swift connection. The bard was fascinating and beautiful...that was undeniable, but Percival was in no position and had no inclination to fall for a pretty face or a damsel in distress. No matter how it irked him to debase Newt with such a reductive term.

When he spoke, his natural husk had lost a little of his characteristic sternness, “It sounds like you miss them.”

Newt sounded genuinely surprised at the simple observation as he answered, “Yes, yes, very much so,” a pause, a breath and then, “You’re not going to question the fact I’m on first name terms with dragons?”

Percival sensed the genuine curiosity behind the teasing words and answered with equal sincerity, “I find it easy to picture somehow. You strike me as someone who wouldn’t be afraid of the kind of monsters that don’t walk on two legs and imprison one another simply for their sadistic amusement.” His head tilted to one side, “I could smell it on you from the moment you got near…you don’t belong in a place like this. You’re not a creature who thrives in captivity or amongst normal folk.”

“That’s quite the nose you’ve got there,” Newt chuckled wearily, a wince clear in his voice but Percival smiled along all the same.

“You wouldn’t be the first to say it,” but he quickly changed the subject before the obvious follow-up, “Is…whatever it is still hurting you?”

“Not as much as before, it keeps on…intensifying in bursts…kinda hard to predict or prepare for so I have to just ride it out.”

“Right,” Percival murmured, feeling morbid curiosity tug at him but not seeing any reason to press the matter when it seemed clear that the bard didn’t want to discuss it. Instead, he asked offhandedly, “What do you like to eat? Your favourite food?”

Another weary chuckle but this time there was no questioning of Percival’s odd, inane attempts at distraction for the pair of them, “I don’t know...maybe um forest blackberries, yes, with Dri-bread and apples.” Percival had to laugh as both men’s stomachs gave almost simultaneous growls at the images Newt’s words were conjuring up. The spymaster couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten and couldn’t imagine that Newt would be fairing any better given how Grindelwald had been treating him thus far.

“Oops, okay, sorry, bringing up food was probably a bad idea but before I change the subject, can I ask what Dri-bread is?”

“Sort of like a sweet bread soaked in honey, bitter-bark and cinnamon, tastes delicious but it’ll make you sick if you eat too much of it,” he hummed a softer laugh than any Percival had heard before and his small smile widened in response. “My friend Jacob – the one you met – he used to make them all the time for his family business but had to stop for the most part when he went travelling and joined up with our troupe. But he still made them whenever we could afford the ingredients – for special occasions and the like. Made four for my birthday the year before last and I ended up giving half of mine to a stray squirrel family that tagged along, they warned us of bandits on the road ahead, seemed the least I could do.”

“Squirrels warned you of bandits?”

“Well yes, they’re in a better position to see ahead than we were what with how fast they climb,” Newt’s reply came as if it should have been obvious.

“Of course,” Percival murmured, thoroughly bemused, “Dare I ask why you talk to squirrels?”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Newt said and Percival could once again hear the smile in his voice as the bard mirrored Percival’s earlier response. He felt as if he had touched upon another dangerous topic however as Newt did not elaborate and once again, Percival didn’t push. He felt as though the young man had probably been pushed enough on whatever abilities he may or may not have by Grindelwald if his earlier behaviour was anything to judge upon. Any hope that Percival may have had that he was the only one to smell the odd Gift on Newt had been dashed by Grindelwald’s potent interest in something the bard had apparently done – brought something to life. Though precisely what had been animated and how it linked to an affinity with dragons and squirrels, Percival couldn’t begin to fathom.

His mind drifting back to the mention of a birthday and thinking of how junior Newt seemed to his companions, Percival asked: “How old are you?” 

“Nearly twenty,” came the surprisingly ready reply and Percival was a little taken aback, he would’ve guessed him to be a little younger, perhaps seventeen, and supposed that he did seem to have the look of a boy who had grown into adulthood rather quickly – gangly and slender and with a still slightly boyish face. 

“You seem younger, especially given the company you keep.”

“You mean Tina and Jacob?”

“Well, they seem older, a bit more experienced perhaps.”

“Jacob is, yes – nearly twelve years older, but Tina is only four years older than me.”

“They’re not your family though?”

Newt sighed and shifted a little, “Not by blood, no, though they’ve always treated me like it.”

“Lucky to have people like that around you, I suppose.”

“Very,” Newt agreed shortly and Percival could hear a wistfulness drifting into his tone. He clearly missed his companions and was likely concerned for the mental block that Grindelwald had placed upon them. Percival knew better than anyone how being forgotten by those closest to you could affect a person. Like a keen sting. A cut that never heals.

“They’ll be alright, you know, as long as they can’t remember you or Grindelwald, they shouldn’t be in any danger from him – they’ll be out of the way of whatever he wants from you, I’d reckon.”

“Yes, he probably has a dozen different ways of making me do what he wants without resorting to threatening them,” the words sounded simultaneously bitter and relieved.

“Why I travel alone,” the words escaped Percival’s lips before he could think better of them and he heard an exhale of breath, one that sounded less related to the discomfort the bard was in and more in response to Percival’s somewhat thoughtless words.

“You’d rather be alone?”

“I didn’t say that,” Percival replied shortly.

“I suppose being a thief isn’t a career that invites much trust in others.”

Percival flinched a little but dipped his head in an unseen assent, “I suppose you’re right but that’s not all I am.”

“Oh?”

Percival bit his tongue this time and remained silent.

“Droch-ábhar?”

Percival jolted a little at the use of his native language even as the words were a little marred by the undecided accent of the young bard – surprised that Newt knew the phrase, it usually meant that one conversant had brought up a bad subject or risky topic of conversation and he couldn’t help but smile again. “Didn’t realise you spoke any Riskian.”

“A little, got a lot of visitors to where I grew up, from all over and then I met even more whilst we were travelling, a few of the earlier songs I learnt were Riskian.”

“Ever been there?”

“Yes, just passing through though…maybe two years ago, now,” came Newt’s reply, though it seemed a little strained again, the clinking of chains growing louder, panting breaths released and he let out a groan before adding, “Went to the capital…pretty place, dreary weather…reminded me of-..ah!” a seemingly fortifying breath that tremored as Percival imagined the bard did, “reminded me of home.” Those final words sounded so strained and bordering tearful that Percival’s resolve fractured.

“Newt? I know you don’t want to talk about whatever he’s doing to you but if you tell me I might be able to help you handle it. I know a fair bit about magic and healing, I could help.”

“It’s not an injury, exactly…don’t think it’s going to do any permanent damage.”

“It's keeping you on edge, isn’t it?”

There was a muted gasp and Percival could imagine the colour flaring the bard’s cheeks – the humiliation he was suffering -- and Percival didn’t blame him for his hesitance. 

“I know this’ll be difficult but try to relax your muscles. It’ll help, trust me. Focus on something else outside of yourself and keep your mind on it – find it and hold onto it.”

“Focussing on other things isn’t always such a good idea for me,” a weary, drained chuckle and Percival grit his teeth as the low moans grew in desperation, the sounds of struggles increased too until the next words were torn out in a frantic cry, “Please! Please keep on talking to me…it…it helps…” 

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I just thought-”

“Its…it’s alright, I just- I need a good distraction…makes it easier to ignore it…and them.”

“Them?”

“All the creatures…below us…around us…they’re…they’re angry...just as much prisoners as we are...”

Newt then let out a barely muffled scream that shocked Percival into pulling instinctively against his bonds, his impulse to call out to the other dying in his throat, however, as the wall between them suddenly changed, faded and became almost completely transparent. He could see through to Newt’s cell and what he witnessed took his already strained breath away despite knowing that whatever the reason for this sudden sight, it was Grindelwald’s doing and likely too, his malicious intent.

Newt was curled into a hunched ball on his side, arms caught behind him with leather cuffs that strained his gauze-draped shoulders, his bare chest heaving with panicked breaths and adorned with a prominent piercing on one side. The silver hoop that pierced his left nipple shivered with each exhale, a small, intricately engraved adornment hanging from it and a thin, delicate silver chain that fell loose a few inches down his chest and then looped back up to a second piercing in the bard’s upper ear. The ear-piercing dangled as a small silver vine, an intricate-looking dragon cuffing the arch of Newt’s ear and poking out through dishevelled coppery curls. A black satin blindfold was tied over the bard's eyes and below that his plush lips were set in a hard line as he fought to keep his sounds of distress at bay, a ribbed, banded metal collar holding his head up, keeping his chin from resting into his body as his curled form suggested he wanted. Percival’s eyes drifted further downward, taking in the equally gauzy, almost see-through sarong that wrapped the bard's slender hips and draped his curled legs to where an anklet and cuff were fastened to one foot. The ankle adornment too was shaped like a coiled, curving dragon, thin-bodied and protectively ensnaring the young man’s foot to the floor.

But what was most noticeable was the odd collection of marks and injuries that adorned Newt’s body, the encasement of old burn scars that wrapped his lower half, varying in severity from slightly pink skin to ropily raised flesh as they dipped below the garment he wore. There was bruising and chafing visible around the bard’s neck and ankle front where he had fought to free himself, irritation and a few spots of blood about the piercings and an odd, identifiable set of incisions just above the pierced nipple. The scar formed the shape of a thin-bodied spider with arched legs branching out from either side. It was white but looked fresh, reddened skin tracing the wound, as if an attempt to heal it had not gone according to the plan of the magic-wielder. It was unnerving and sickening to see that Grindelwald seemed to have more or less branded Newt as his property and then dressed him up in such a way that it could not be denied or hidden away from.

It all made for a transfixing yet horrifying sight, Percival’s knowledge that Grindelwald was responsible for the bard’s current state not quite outweighing the stirrings of arousal he felt within him. Shamefully, he could feel his cock stirring and thickening in the confines of his trousers, an uncomfortable feeling that made him want to squirm on the spot for more reasons than simply his uncomfortable position. He tried closing his eyes, taking deep breaths in and out as best he could but his aching ribs screamed at him with every inhale and exhale and he was forced to abandon the tactic quickly as it only ignited the flames fanning his agony further into being.

His eyes flew open once more as another choked cry left the bard and he witnessed how Newt spasmed, his curled position loosening as his long legs kicked out, the damp stain and prominent bulge in the pulled-taut material of the sarong emphasizing just what kind of torment the younger man was under. As the red-head rolled, likely trying to get into a more comfortable position, Percival stifled a curse with great difficulty as he saw what he had suspected – the solid base of something dark and shining nestled in his hole and pressed against the sangria gauze covering Newt’s arse. He doubted that Newt was aware of his audience, what with the previously solid wall and the blindfold, but he still felt shame and guilt crawl heavy and cruel in his gut as his body reacted to the bard’s situation in a manner that repelled and repulsed his mind. The sounds that left Newt’s lips combined with his growing admiration for the bard and the sight of him as he was; so undeniably beautiful in form, feature and arousal of his own...it felt wrong, but that dirty thrill only served to tug further at the spymaster’s resolve.

He swallowed thickly past the knot of shame in his throat, opening his mouth to speak, to console Newt or else try to advise him now that he knew his situation better, but the words caught in his throat as he realised that Newt would not appreciate having him witness this any more than he was aware of already. Instead, he tried his best to act as if he could see nothing more than the solid stone wall and grate that had been between them before.

“Newt...tell me what kind of creatures there are around us? What do they look like?” he paused before forcing a laugh, “are they likely to want Dri-bread if we want to be warned of anything?” He wasn’t sure of when his mind dropped into the mindset of ‘we’ but it felt right somehow, clicked something into place that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Newt’s whole body jerked from one side to another as he laughed, the sound wheezing a little bit past the collar and his obvious discomfort but answered all the same. Percival found himself increasingly impressed with the bard’s resilience and capacity for humour in a situation like this as he answered: “Nope, most of the folk around here seem to be carnivores.”

“Well that’s not a particularly comforting thought,” Percival said, “and you say they’re angry?”

“Yes, but for me...at Grindelwald...most of them aren’t the sort to attack unprovoked.” He huddled closer to himself and huffed a breath, “Well, except for Gus but that’s Nifflers for you I suppose...he’s not a carnivore but he’ll go for anything shiny.”

“Probably a good thing he’s nowhere near you right now then, eh?” Percival spoke without thinking, eyes still absently tracing over the piercings and restraints that embellished the bard and internally wincing as Newt frowned visibly, jaw tightening.

“How would you know?”

Percival was quick to make an excuse, “You uh, said something about Grindelwald and ‘unsolicited piercings’ before, I’m guessing it was from first-hand experience?”

“Oh, yes, right, I suppose.”

Percival relaxed as Newt seemed to accept the excuse as a valid one. But swiftly changed the subject again before he could think too closely on the matter.

“What else is near us? Anything I should be worried about?”

Newt paused for a long time, his breathing seeming to steady and his limbs to relax before he spoke in a voice filled with wonder, “A Chimera, two Hippogriff foals and a father, four- no, five Nifflers, a Chupacabra, a colony of Acromantula and...yes, I think some Salamanders.”

Whilst Percival only recognised maybe half of the creatures listed, he could still tell that it was no way in their favour that their captor apparently held a veritable army of dangerous beasts in the cells and catacombs below his fortress. It was alarming indeed and he found himself questioning why Newt seemed to think that the beasts would not do them harm even if freed.

“So, we’re screwed then.”

“No, no, they aren’t bad creatures, simply because they’re capable of violence and their survival sometimes demands it, it doesn’t mean that they want to be here.”

“But they follow Grindelwald’s orders, his will.”

“If they do, it’s only because they don’t have another choice!” Newt protested vehemently, face flushing a little in anger, the sweat already shining on his skin due to his abuse appearing brighter at the colour in his cheeks.

“Newt, do you have any idea why Grindelwald has the nickname he does? The old white spider? Why it’s his crest?” Percival demanded, not relishing in the revelation he was dropping on the bard but feeling that he should know it anyway. “He ingratiated himself to the Terranic court nearly two decades ago by slaughtering the rebelling factions at the eastern borders...he did this with a potent combination of black magic and a horde of Acromantula. Those that managed to survive the slaughter reported the towns that were struck as now being uninhabitable as they are overrun with the beasts and their web traps. They were left to roam there by Grindelwald as an example to any other potential insurrections.”

His voice had grown gradually horse as he saw the dawning look of horror parting the bard’s lips and paling his previously flushed skin, “The corpses of hundreds litter their webs and the surrounding forests for miles along the border between Tarrania and Riskant. That was what established his standing and power – what allows him to do almost anything he wants,” the spymaster breathed a bitter sound of anger before adding, “that and buying people as whores and slaves.”

He could see the tear tracks that were making their way down Newt’s face and felt the leaden guilt claw all the more at his smarting insides, “I’m sorry but you can’t honestly expect me to believe that you could justify creatures that were responsible for death and suffering on that scale, even at the behest of a man like Grindelwald.”

“I…I don’t understand, they shouldn’t be so affected by human Gifts, they shouldn’t have been forced to do his bidding, for such a prolonged period…it doesn’t make any sense.”

Percival grew irritated, his own experience with the carnage the Acromantula were capable of playing fresh in his mind and burning the backs of his eyes, “I don’t think it matters why they did what they did. They're monsters and they slaughtered hundreds of innocents, and if what you say is true and they shouldn’t be affected by human magic, then isn’t the only logical assumption that they agreed to do it? They can talk, can’t they? Think? Deal? Maybe they agreed to a bargain with Grindelwald when he offered them free reign over an area to feed on.”

“But…” Newt’s voice drifted off and this time, as the violent spasms wracked his slender frame, Percival could see a desperation in it that hadn’t been there before, the fresh tears streaming down pale cheeks, the helpless sounds that left his quivering lips…the bard was distraught. Exactly what got to him so much, Percival could only guess at, but from the way the bard spoke, he couldn’t help but think that the younger man was distraught at the thought that the beasts he seemed to connect with were committing atrocities of their own volition. 

“Newt? Newt? It's alright-"

“How can it be alright? If Grindelwald can manipulate proud, powerful creatures that are resistant to human magic into doing what he wants, then what chance do I stand? Do any of us stand?” the words came out in a fierce, shaking torrent, like the breaking of a dam and Percival was caught in it, unable to quite know how to react. “I can feel the anger and defiance of every living creature in this place and it’s just been worn down over time, by abuse. Trust won by trickery and bribes...how am I supposed to work against any or all of that when he seems determined to wear me down? To make me like what he does to me?” Newt’s breath hitched before he whispered: “It’s already working...”

“No, Newt. He might be able to control your body’s reactions but that doesn’t mean he’s got you.”

“So says you, you’re in no better situation than I am.”

“That may be, but it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to give him what he wants.”

“And what exactly is that? What does he want from you?”

Percival took a breath before replying carefully, “Something that would allow him to hurt and control a lot more people.”

“And how do you plan on stopping him from getting it? From in here?”

Percival hesitated for a few moments before intoning listlessly, “Droch-ábhar.”

Newt froze but then sighed out a dry-cracked laugh, his whole body seeming to deflate as he muttered his understanding with a slurred mix of Riskian and common-tongue, “Tuigim…Fair enough, fair enough...”

Another pause, it could’ve been minutes or hours for all the weight it held, “Newt…you know that no matter what he does to you…you-…you seem strong. I don’t think that even someone like him can diminish whatever the hell makes you-…well, _you,_ ” he huffed a laugh at how weak and vague the words sounded, even to himself, but was rewarded when Newt’s lips twitched just a fraction up in a gruesome parody of a smile, a trickle of blood dripping from his split lip and tracing his chin.

“You don’t get much practice at being supportive I take it?”

Percival huffed a laugh, “Not much call for it. Don’t usually get caught like this, and if I do, it's not with anyone else to worry about.”

“Well, there’s no need to worry about me,” Newt’s lips pulled up further in that grim parody of a smile and Percival couldn’t help but mirror it yet again.

“Not worried really, more concerned that you won’t be much use in an escape attempt if you’re too bloody miserable to help,” he reprimanded gruffly, eyes averting to the floor momentarily. 

“Not sure if I’m going to be much use anyway,” Newt replied, hands absently tugging upon his bonds and body shuffling awkwardly across the floor as if to test his mobility before a gasp of pain escaped his lips as the thing inside him evidently shifted too and he stopped.

“Well, it seems rather unfair to leave you here to the mercy of these bastards even if you’re not going to be much help,” again, his tone was teasing but he made sure to infuse a significant amount of sincerity in it too. Granted, escaping and getting his satchel back was a priority, but it by no means meant that he intended to leave Newt behind... or that he wouldn’t leave a bit of hell in his wake if he could help it.

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It was hours, _hours_ before Grindelwald returned to the cell and when he did, there was no warning of the sound of footsteps or a door creaking open, merely the sudden touch of cool fingers upon Newt’s bare back. He flinched away but did not cry out or attempt to fight back, the fight worn out of him by what he suspected was an entire night of constant torment, the thing humming and morphing inside him preventing any attempts at sleep. Each time he’d almost managed to drift off, he’d been jerked awake by the increase of the pressure of the object’s girth, stretching him to the point of straining from within, the tip withdrawing and then slamming unforgivingly back into his prostate, fracturing his concentration and attempts at conversation with the still anonymous thief. His nerves had been unsurpassably frayed by the lack of rest, constant physical and mental torment, an aching, growing need for release of more than one kind and the knowledge that it likely wasn’t going to ever get any better. What the thief had told him, about the Acromantula and then his own tentative explorations out into the wills and minds of the creatures surrounding him had all combined to wear away at his need to actively defy Grindelwald. It wasn’t as if he were any more accepting of the man himself or his deluded sadism, but the thought of fighting indefinitely and only making it worse for himself along the way before ending up in the same place as the majority of the subjugated beasts in Nurmengard…it exhausted him. 

Newt did not move as he felt a hand card through his hair, brushing the messy strands away from his sweat-slicked forehead, though he did make a slight noise of surprise and relief in the back of his throat when the blindfold was slipped from his eyes. He squinted and blinked rapidly, the light – even dim as it was – was nearly blinding after hours spent in total darkness and he was almost grateful when Grindelwald pulled the draped scarf from his shoulders, unfolding it so it was now draped over his face as a half-veil. When he opened his eyes again, the thin sangria gauze helped to shield them just a little from the light whilst allowing him to see. He moved then, shifting up to lean sideways with his shoulders braced against the wall. For the first time able to take in his body and what had been done to it in his unconsciousness – the far too inadequately-covering clothing, the expensive-looking and intricately decorated jewellery and the odd scar that marked his left pectoral. The spiderlike fingers did not cease stroking their way down his back, but the ones in his hair moved to grip Newt’s bicep, giving a warning squeeze for only a moment before Grindelwald went to guide Newt into a standing position. His body was far too weak and aching to do such a thing, however, and even attempting it caused indescribable flaring discomfort to flood through him as the thing inside him shifted once more but then it shortened, shrinking in size until it was merely teasing the first few inches inside his stretched, abused hole. 

“There we go, dear Newt, I think this lesson has been learned well enough,” Grindelwald’s voice was soft and coaxing and the bard let Grindelwald take most of his weight as he was half-dragged from the cell, his lack of energy and dehydration not allowing much else. He whimpered low in his throat as his steps rubbed his still half-hard cock against his thighs with each step, the penetration of his body still flaring discomfort inside him but thankfully nowhere near the extent that it had done before. He glanced, almost instinctively, toward the wall behind which his cellmate had been speaking for their shared imprisonment and his smarting eyes flew wide as mahogany eyes stared wide and guiltily back at him from a familiarly blurred face. The thief was shackled by his wrists, bare, muscled chest shuddering in short, strained breaths as his blackened, heavily bruised ribcage shuddered along, the trouser over one thigh was ripped open and the flesh beneath shone gory and crusted with a thick coating of blood, his torso and wrists bruised and scraped, his feet bare and equally abused.

The carved metal mask shone in its twisted pattern across his face and dark hair fell messily across his forehead from where it had previously been scraped back, shaved at the sides and practical looking. His face was as indescribable as usual but those deep eyes shone with a mix of potent emotion that Newt couldn’t quite fathom until he saw the prominent bulge pressing against the fitted material of the thief’s dark trousers. Newt saw the flush that spread across all of the other prisoner’s body, creeping up his neck to the indiscernible blur of his face as he saw that Newt had noticed his evident arousal and for the time, it occurred to the bard that the lack of sight between them had been entirely one-sided. The thief had been watching him for hours, aroused and unable to do anything about it but squirm in his bindings and Newt wasn’t sure whether to feel more mortified by the revelation or pitying of the man’s mutual torture. But then again, he hadn’t warned Newt of his sight, he’d lied when Newt had asked him how he knew of Newt’s piercings when he could evidently see them – hadn’t given him the chance to hide himself away from the other as much as his position allowed. Granted, there wasn’t much he could’ve done anyway but the thought that the thief had been getting off at the sight of his suffering…even unintentionally...it was more than a little disturbing. Even if the thief had not had much choice in it either.

He looked guilty, shamed, and the bard could read the apology in his eyes even if he didn’t voice it aloud, likely for fear of showing weakness or attachment in front of Grindelwald who garnered a furious, indignant, simmering glare from the dark-haired man. Newt felt a jolt go through him them, a need to resist and shoved against the mage whom he was draped over, catching himself against the wall with one shoulder as the chain around his ankle hobbled him and he turned his fevered attention to the mage whose expression was almost as unfathomable as the thief’s. Newt stood, leaning heavily upon the wall, panting with the effort it took to stand and eyed about Grindelwald’s jawline blankly, not rising the eyes but feeling a sudden need to be away from all of this – the thief and the mage alike.

“Newt, you might want to behave yourself, else I might decide that you have not been suitably chastised,” the voice was calm and even, not threatening in an obvious way, merely stating his intention as fact and Newt shuddered but kept his stance.

“Leave me here longer…don’t care,” he rasped, his voice worn by his cries, distress and lack of water.

“No, sweetness, I think you have had enough time socialising with your fellow miscreants,” Grindelwald commented, eyes flickering to the thief who scowled, shoulders straining and posture straightening, “and I believe that he deserves no more opportunities to ogle what does not belong to him,” his gaze turned sharp on the other man.

“Why’d you bring down the wall, then?” asked the thief, eyes blazing. “To try another one of your little tricks? To make us doubt one another? To make Newt doubt the one person in this place who's not trying to jump his bones and manipulate him?”

“Oh, and your intentions toward him are so innocent, are they, dear Graverobber?” Grindelwald purred, hand gesturing deliberately to the thief’s obvious erection and his anger flared brighter, almost a tangible force with the vibrations of the low growls rumbling his stout chest but he did not reply. “As I thought,” Grindelwald sniffed dismissively and stepped closer to Newt, gripping his arm and tugging Newt around to press the bard’s back against the mage’s leather-clad chest, tipping his chin up to look at the thief directly. The older man wrapped one arm over Newt’s bare chest, the sleeve of his shirt brushing agonisingly against the piercing and Grindelwald’s other hand locked around the collar on Newt’s throat, the metal constricting again but this time keeping his head up, not able to look away. It was a clear attempt at humiliation for the both of them, equal signs of their arousal, isolated and uncontrollable, and Newt fought another whimper as his hands, still cuffed behind him, were pressed tight against the answering bulge in Grindelwald’s leather trousers. He tried to ignore it, turning his palms inward toward himself but that only served to press the base of the solid object inside him more firmly, eliciting the very sound he fought against to escape anyway as his sore, sensitised rim was stimulated once more. 

Newt cringed as he felt Grindelwald’s lips brush the side of his face, “This thieving cur is responsible for almost as many deaths as he accuses me of – a Riskant assassin, spymaster, mage and a robber of the dead. He broke open the graves and corpses that were left behind in a skirmish I organised some seven years ago. He dug them up and robbed them of their valuables for the pursuit of wealth and black magic,” Newt stared at the thief as the man’s dark eyes narrowed though he didn’t speak, Grindelwald clucked his tongue before continuing, “He accuses me of being heinous and demented but I have not stooped to robbing graves and defiling the dead.”

“No, you only put them in the ground in the first place, under horrific circumstances I might add,” the thief spat. “You turned people _inside out_. You obliterated them. Yes, I may have recovered something from the grave of a friend to better aid my country's plight, but _you_ were the one that ensured there was next to nothing left to bury.” His voice was venom, “You were the one who planted a source to tell my people that it was buried with one of the dead. You had me go through dozens of graves digging for it and then tried to have me killed once I found that damn ring.”

Newt watched wide-eyed as the thief’s gaze had flickered to his even as his words and fury were directed toward Grindelwald – he wasn’t simply venting his indignation and anger; he was explaining it to Newt. Whatever his reasons, he seemed to want Newt to think better of him than the likely twisted version of the truth that Grindelwald had been spouting. And so, Newt inclined his head, just a little – as much as he was able – toward the thief. He still didn’t know him properly, or really at all, but Newt had found in past that his instincts rarely led him wrong; if he got one of those oh so very rare feelings that he should trust a human, he followed it. It had been what led him to gain loyal companions and near-family in Jacob and Tina. The same instincts he should not have ignored when it came to Grindelwald.

So, when he met the thief’s eyes, he made sure to smile, if only the small, thin thing he could manage whilst in the humiliating position he was. A position that was only worsened when Grindelwald sent a harsh knee into the back of Newt’s legs, his grip on the bard’s chest and shoulder shoving him down to his knees which met the floor his a harsh crack of disused joints and solid stone. Grindelwald’s hand fisted Newt’s hair and wrenched his head around to face the mage at a painful, awkward angle made worse by the rigid, banded collar. His mismatched eyes were flat and hard, challenging, though Newt was unsure whether the challenge was directed at himself or the thief.

“You have stolen much from me over the years, caused me much irritation, and yet I’ve never seen you invest in explaining your questionable actions to anyone. Too confident in your set course to offer anything other than what your rulers dictate,” Grindelwald’s voice turned silky soft and dangerous as he continued, the hand fisted in Newt’s curls tightening, drawing tears to his eyes again as Grindelwald pressed his covered crotch to the side of the bard’s face. “What is it about my dear little Newt that has caught your attention and perhaps endowed you with a delusion of morality? A pretence at being more than the thieving mongrel scum you are, hmmm?”

The thief once again did not answer but his jaw twitched against a clear desire to bark some sort of insult, demand or order. Newt wasn’t sure of the other’s intentions by any means but he felt more inclined to believe that they were of a far less dubious and debasing nature than the man who was practically rubbing himself off against Newt’s flushed face. Lesser of two evils and all that. So, he addressed the mage currently tormenting him in a strained, hoarse hushed voice but kept it as firm as he could, “What are you hoping to achieve here, Mister Grindelwald? Trying to humiliate me in front of a near-stranger seems rather beneath you, don’t you think? I’ve told you before that I don’t want to be involved in whatever feud or history you have going on between you and I meant it.”

“Oh, but this is more than a simple matter of subjugation, little Ræv -- it is another lesson for you to learn, one about the nature of men. Of those who would take advantage of you if they could. With me, you would be protected, but left to your own devices in this world, unprotected and unclaimed, you would fall prey to delinquents and defilers such as this,” Grindelwald tilted the bard’s chin down to focus his attention upon the still prevalent bulge in the other prisoner’s dark trousers. “He claims to be better than I, but at least I am open in my desires, I do not hide behind a pretence of chivalry as this lowlife does – no delusion of betterment poorly masking the common nature that all men have. It is why establishments such as mine prove so successful, an outlet for those baser desires to be safely expended so that animalistic nature does not warp and fester below the surface.”

His fingers carded through Newt’s hair gently now, nails lightly scraping his scalp in a way that would have perhaps felt soothing under different circumstances and the bard shuddered. “You know better than most of the cruder, baser desires of all living things – to fuck, to fornicate and dominate…would you rather creatures were denied that instinct? That they let themselves suffer and deny their natures for the sake of archaic, impeding human tradition?” The mage’s free hand slid down to press his thumb against Newt’s slightly parted lips, pressing between them, tracing the pad of his thumb over the tip of the bard’s tongue and grazing lightly over his teeth.

Newt did not hesitate before he bit down.

He drew blood and still, he did not release the trapped digit, continuing to gnaw his sharp canines into Grindelwald’s thumb until they hit bone. Grindelwald hissed, wrenching Newt’s head back so violently that he felt strands of hair ripped from his scalp with eye-stinging ferocity as he was thrown to one side, his head rebounding violently against the floor as he was unable to catch himself with his bound arms behind him. His vision blanked white for a few moments and when he blinked it back into coherency, he could hear the thief’s accented voice shouting and not, it seemed, for the first time, “-fucking bastard, get away from him!”

It was then that Newt became aware of the body pressing down upon him, Grindelwald’s thighs bracketing his shoulders as the man’s now intact, though still blood-stained fingers pried once more at Newt’s lips, this time, his attempts to bite did him no good as something spherical was pressed between them. It was another one of the orbs that had been pressed inside him before, but instead of forming into a phallic shape, it morphed into a deformed ring, wedging itself between his teeth and cranking his mouth open wide. He cried out, the sound distorted and muffled beyond comprehension as it solidified there, the solid dark ring resisting his teeth’s attempts to bite through it and holding his teeth and lips open for Grindelwald’s exploration. The mage promptly took advantage of this by pressing in two fingers, pushing until his fingertips brushed the back of Newt’s throat, triggering his gag reflex and causing him to choke and gag around the invading digits. Grindelwald did not remove his fingers, however, even as Newt continued to heave up spit around him. Eyes intent and darkly fixed on Newt’s flushed, panicked face, he waited until the heaving subsided and Newt was stuck laying and gasping in all the air he could around the intrusion.

“You sick fuck, stop it!” Newt couldn’t see the thief but he could hear the sounds of a continued struggle, couldn’t find it in him to focus much on the thief’s plight as the fingers withdrew, only making it marginally easier to breath before those fingers moved to the fastenings of Grindelwald’s trousers. Newt tried to plead with Grindelwald around the thing wedging his mouth open but the words were rendered incomprehensible and the look in the man’s lunar eyes told the bard that any pleas that did make were comprehended whether by word or sentiment would not only go unheeded but would be savoured. For the first time, Newt was faced with the substantial size of the mage’s member, having purposefully avoided all contact with it up until now wherever he could but this time quite literally having to face it and him. It was perhaps a little longer than his own, certainly thicker and the head was shining bulbous and red, glistening thickly with pre-come at the engorged tip and Newt was forced to taste it as the hot head was pressed in between his parted lips. The salty taste stung his senses, pushed past his futilely resisting tongue that only seemed to gain more enthusiasm from the man penetrating him as it inadvertently caressed over his shaft. Tears streamed from Newt’s eyes, wetting his cheeks as Grindelwald pushed forward, his thighs coming forward to bracket Newt’s flushed face as he thrust deeper into the bard’s mouth and edged toward his throat. His gag reflex tried to kick in again but something stopped it, a taste that resembled honey and sickly-sweet flowers – flowers like the one that had filled his mouth before, when he had been trapped in the plant’s clutches. Whatever it was, it seemed to be relaxing his throat and allowing the intrusion. Even as Newt’s mind rebelled against it, his body welcomed it. Grindelwald held himself deep-seated in Newt’s throat, allowing him to grow accustomed to the sensation, weeping and arms trapped uncomfortably behind him, wrenching his shoulders, dry lips cracked as they were held open wide around the older man’s thick length.

Grindelwald drew back until only the tip remained, parting Newt’s lips and teasing the taste of the man strongly along his senses before thrusting back in. He picked up a brutal pace, even the sick-sweet taste of the plant slick not completely preventing Newt’s discomfort. He choked on it, the stench of the other man, the smothering humiliation and the knowledge that another was watching – someone who had only ever seen him as a victim, an obstacle, a weak boy, but still seemed to want Newt to think the best of him…and Newt was suffocating around their common enemy’s cock, helpless to stop any of it. Everything around him was muffled, Grindelwald’s thighs crushing against his ears and the side of his head, the man’s thrusts growing near frantic as he leant his head back, eyes hooded as he looked down at the pinned bard. He panted out tainted praises as he thrust, tone heavy with arousal and satisfaction of a different kind entirely, “That’s it, sweetness, so good, so pliant for me, just takes a little push to make you into the perfect little fuckhole, doesn’t it?”

A stray spiderlike hand drifted down Newt’s tension-ridged body, playing idly with the pierced nipple and causing Newt to choke momentarily around the cock in his mouth before Grindelwald’s hand moved down decisively to dive under the leather-ridged tight waist of the sarong he wore. The mage gripped him, working him expertly as before but with a hint of desperation, as if his usual composure were slipping with his enjoyment of the tight heat of Newt’s mouth. The teasing, too rough fingers edging him ever closer to his blistering edge, the torment he’d undergone over the past hours rekindling as the artificial length inside his arse lengthened again, thin but long and decisive as it prodded at his prostate. 

Grindelwald pulled out some time later, leaving the younger man gasping and gaping, unable to close his mouth or move much at all as Grindelwald stood, pulling Newt up to his knees by his hair and panting in satisfaction himself as he resumed fucking Newt’s face once the bard was upright. One hand gripped the back of Newt’s skull, bracing him as he fucked ruthlessly in, over and over and using the other hand to brace against the top of Newt’s throat, above where the collar rested, the new angle allowing Grindelwald to feel the bulge of his own cock as he thrust balls-deep. The man shuddered, whole body going tense as he came, hot and disgusting down Newt’s throat, giving him no choice but to accept all that he gave and then holding him still longer even as the mage’s cock softened in his mouth. Newt gagged, then coughed, his eyes streaming and body jerking harshly against his restraints as the sweet-taste of the plant’s secretions left his mouth, swallowed down with the salty, unwelcome taste of the man’s come. His own seed sprayed the ground before them when the thing lodged deep inside him gave a pulse so violent that his throbbing, tormented cock spilt over, his orgasm leaving him with a sensation akin to being punched in the gut. He choked further, eyes stinging, mouth gaping and length slowly deflating to rest limp and aching against his thigh as the lack of oxygen began to steal away his sense and consciousness. 

Grindelwald only withdrew when Newt’s eyelids began to droop, his beet-red face flushed and covered in sweat, the man’s hold on his head and neck keeping him upright before he manoeuvred the bard up and into his arms. Newt hung limply as Grindelwald slid his fingers into the young man’s mouth, clicking out to the side and gently removing the strange substance from between his jaws, carefully massaging the bard’s cheeks and jaw closed again and making soothing noises in the back of his throat. Newt did not have the energy to resist or even look behind him to where he could feel the thief’s eyes boring into the back of his skull, hoping and praying that he could somehow melt into the seed-stained floor beneath him and disappear. To dwell forever out of sight and mind and to act as a support to things that he could not and would not comprehend as a dull slab of stone. 

**A/N - Heyo chaps, cringy? Okay? Requests? Too slow-burn? Too quick? Let me know?**


	8. Sins and Submission

Percival didn’t know how long he was stuck there, flabbergasted, horrified and listening to the barely audible, soft sobs of the young man in the cell next door. The transparency of the wall between them had faded, but the grate still allowed a tendril of contact through sound alone. Nothing he’d done or said had made the slightest bit of difference, and witnessing the debauched, distressing scenes that had unfolded had been disturbing in the extreme; the violence and cruelty of the mage as he forced himself upon Newt and into his protesting mouth. The bastard ensuring all the while that his victim endured intense stimulation that would only serve to confuse and distress him further.

And it was clear that Grindelwald had wanted Percival to witness every moment of it in graphic clarity. The mage may not have looked his way once he began his assault of the bard in earnest, but Percival could tell from the panting, satisfied breaths the man let out and the vicious curve of his lips and hips into every thrust that he was savouring more than the simple act of carnality itself. Grindelwald was relishing making his point, staking a claim and offering up utterly disturbing images with which to torment both his prisoners. And it had worked, certainly and without a trace of doubt.

Before the wall between them had become solid again, Percival had seen the pain in Newt’s sea-stained, red-rimmed eyes, the hollow need to disappear and not be seen again. It appalled him to witness yet another level of depravity that the mage was willing and _eager_ to stoop to in his quest for power and his own sadistic desires. There was nothing Percival could do for the younger man to assuage his misery or the abuse he had suffered or even the abuse that he was likely going to suffer in the future, not with his Gift and body bound as they were. There was a certain kind of dull ache, a gnawing pain in his chest that accompanied this kind of helplessness – the familiar feeling of being unable to do anything to prevent the inevitability of suffering. The inescapable force of despair. Not his own and not the bard’s.

He tried talking to Newt again after some time but his voice rang back to himself and echoed in a way it hadn’t before and as the bard did not react with so much as a halt in his gasping breaths, Percival suspected that the other prisoner could not hear him anymore. Whether by magic on Grindelwald’s part that coincided with the renewed opacity of the wall or by some deeper trauma affecting Newt himself and his perception of the world around him, Percival did not know. And could not receive an answer. He was not left alone indefinitely, however; he got his own visit from the hungry spider after hours, possibly days, in the darkened room with only the sounds of another man’s quiet, stifled misery for company. The hunger gnawed at him, thirst burned his throat, and his damaged ribs scorched each breath that rattled through him. The blood that crusted his wounds itched and ached as did his trapped limbs. The one mercy was that he was not left in the same position that entire time. The chains lengthened enough for him to reach the nearest corner of his cell, though unfortunately nowhere near the dying torch - they did so seemingly unprovoked but likely at Grindelwald’s behest - and he was spared the indignity of being forced to make a mess of himself as his bodily functions would’ve dictated. Percival only hoped that his cellmate was also being spared such indignity. He supposed that even Grindelwald didn’t want to visit or interact with prisoners covered in their own piss and excrement, even if he didn’t seem to mind them malnourished, dehydrated, tortured, debased, bruised, stiff and bleeding. Odd standards to keep to. 

Percival managed to maintain a level glare, a steady, unwavering hatred in the gaze he fixed Grindelwald with as he entered, the door left mockingly open behind him as he stepped forward with a carafe of water held in one hand and a laden plate in the other. Percival snorted a laugh at the obvious ploy, the temptation of both – the smell of fresh fruit and the sloshing sounds of water in the container taunting him in a clear attempt to entice him into being more agreeable to what the bastard wanted from him. Something he’d never give up if he could help it.

“You really think that’s going to work on me?” the words came out as scornful sandpaper on his dry throat and cracked lips but his eyes thankfully conveyed his sentiment effectively enough. All it resulted in was a snort from the mage, who glanced down at the offerings with amusement.

“Oh, this? This is not for you, I’m afraid. No. It’s for the troublesome, stubborn little creature next door,” Grindelwald spoke with a chastising tone, as if Newt’s resistance were a silly, unfounded thing, like a child refusing medicine - but Gellert he knew better and he could wait out the bard’s petulance, until the younger man invariably realised the truth of things.

“Then what the hell do you want?”

A tutting noise followed that set Percival’s teeth on edge, “Now, now, is that really the tone you wish to set for our discussion? To put us on the offensive?”

Percival tugged pointedly on his currently shortened chains, “Bit late for that.”

A sigh. “I suppose, though I had hoped that a little time to yourself might work to curb your insolent tongue and stubbornness.”

“Not likely,” Percival spat, and Grindelwald looked at him evenly.

“It worked for dear Newton.” 

The words stung in an odd way that came as an unexpected blow and when Percival spoke his voice was hushed with it, more so than from his parched throat, “I think what got to him was you ramming your cock down his throat, you deluded, sadistic prick.”

Grindelwald’s head tilted to one side, eyes dark and fathomless, “I really don’t think that you are in any position to be goading me. I have held out on more violent methods thus far simply because I am patient enough to wait for your inevitable submission.” His lips curled into something that was nothing like a smile though it held the basic features of one. It lacked substance it was without either joy or spite or malice. A haunting stretch of muscles and skin over a painted, pinched mask. “Submission, after all, happens to be a speciality of mine. Minds far stronger than yours have bent and broken to me, and there is precisely nothing about you or your circumstances that would make you an exception.” His eyes skated almost scathingly over Percival’s masked face, “No matter your tricks or trinkets.”

Percival let out a derisive laugh of his own, the heat and triumph of his secret warming him a little, steeling his resolve further, “A _trinket_ you still can’t figure out on your own, eh?”

“Illusion magic of this…underhandedness bears no interest to me,” came the sniffy reply.

“And yet it stills gets to you, doesn’t it?” Percival goaded with a grin.

“Immaterial,” Grindelwald dismissed. “Just as your resistances are, Graverobber. You will suffer and then you will give me what I want -- you will give me the hallowed item that you possess now and tell me all that you know of the one you stole years ago. I earned the right to the most powerful of these items and I shall not be denied the trinity.”

“No, I won’t. You can stick it up your arse,” Percival corrected him stubbornly, earning a sigh and a roll of mismatched eyes before the thief felt a hum of magic pass through the room and a moment later he was doubled over in his restraints with a sharp cry of agony, feeling as though his damaged ribs were attempting to spread and separate themselves within his chest. He hollered with next to no air as he saw his ribs shift under his skin, pulled taught and agonizing, fanning the fire within him and bringing tears to his stinging eyes.

The sensation stopped as quickly as it had come. He sighed as he felt his ribs settle back into proper place, the pain abating even if it didn’t disappear completely. Percival glared up at Grindelwald through watering, furious eyes as he worked to settle his breathing once more and dispel the panicked, horrible sensation of suffocating from within. Cold eyes regarded him dispassionately. “You will not withstand,” a glimmer of dark amusement sparked within the lighter eye and smooth lips curled once more as he stepped back from the cell, “But perhaps I should embrace your suggestion when it comes to my dear Newt.” 

Percival gritted his teeth, almost baring them at the man who now stood in the corridor, clearly prepared to leave again; likely to go torment the abused bard next door. “Leave him be, you bastard.”

“I’m sure he’ll learn to appreciate the benefits of being in my good graces soon enough,” Grindelwald set down a cup, tauntingly only filled with perhaps an inch or two of water from the carafe a foot or so from the door. In his current state of bondage, Percival would not be able to reach it and he supposed it was another form of torment for him to wait for the chains to lengthen again for him to reach the drink -- if they ever did. 

The door between them shut and Percival heard no more from outside his cell – neither from his captor nor from his fellow captive. He wasn’t sure whether that was consoling or ominous. 

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The bard was curled onto his side, head tucked into slender, pale arms that had been released from their imprisonment behind him, though the fetching brown leather cuffs remained, as did the chain connecting them – a feat achieved seamlessly in one of the few periods in which Newt had drifted into a fitful sleep. He had been watching. Not constantly, of course -- he had other things that required his attention. There was more to Gellert’s life than the submission of the stubborn, gifted, beautiful young bard – though he found that his other activities became that much more of a chore with the delicious challenge and distraction residing in the cells below Nurmengard. Just waiting for a strict hand or a soft caress, for pleasure and for pain…endless possibilities to bring the boy to heel. He was young, soft and inexperienced, yet somehow also more perceptive and instinctive than many people twice his age, with a keen wit, a knowledge of things that should be beyond his reach and experience... A knack, indeed. Grindelwald found himself warming to the term that the boy bard had coined to so succinctly summarise whatever resided within him, some form of gift developed and cultivated by the boy’s instincts, kindness, fierce determination and proclivity for taming the untameable. He would certainly be an asset once encouraged to submit to a greater will and power. He could be used to recruit more magical beasts, more formidable weapons and tools to join the ones that made up Grindelwald’s power base.

The Acromantula had facilitated his establishment of power initially over the fools of the court, over the ones who could not sort their own problems and had fled their lands, abandoning the border towns to the Riskant insurgents. That was until Albus had done his work in subtly directing the emperor and his advisors toward the assistance of a then-obscure noble, one who had gradually been earning his power and position as a solver of problems. They were perfectly positioned – Albus as the force of subtle persuasion, a sympathetic ear, a careful nudge, a wise advisor, an opportunistic player – the perfect partner to Gellert’s brand of overt dominance and attractive incentives, the true power. They worked seamlessly together to achieve their ends. It certainly didn’t hurt that Albus was devoted to him utterly. Or so Gellert had thought, until recently. Despite their years together, despite the carnal connection and intellectual insight that joined them as surely as the forces of their gifts did, it seemed that his partner had been hiding things from him. Gellert did the same of course, but the secrets that Albus bid be kept seemed to be of a more significant nature. The kind that could tear apart all they had built and divide Albus’ loyalty between love and a misguided notion of family.

Gellert coveted loyalty above all else. The submission and passion of others devoted entirely to himself so that no doubt could be left over their actions and intentions. He had worked ceaselessly over the past twenty-six years to ensure a sect of truly loyal followers, pawns, and even his one constant in Albus, but he had also learnt that as changeable as the follies of men were, so could loyalty be bought and lost. There were those who lost sight of the importance of the future he was building, those that harboured delusions that all were equal. And it _was folly._ Those lacking gifts and skills, beauty, strength, intelligence or foresight – they were expendable, a cattle class to be worked and utilized as currency and labour. The surfaces upon which his strands of creation were spun, the solid, tense, multi-textured and ever-eroding surface that could be replaced and built upon, crushing and compacting the remnants of the unworthy. Cities and cultures built on top of the dead. Atop the backs of the downtrodden. Simple evolution and survival of the strongest.

It was why discoveries such as Newt held such value – strength, perceptiveness, power and influence all wrapped up in a sweet, scarred, succulent little package. He reminded Gellert a little of how Albus had looked in their youth: soft skin, pale, sharp features, fiery hair and a spirit to match it. Even his eyes, which were tainted more with the tones of the forest than the bright blue marine shade that Albus’ held…they held something that had reminded the mage of an indefinable quality that had faded in Albus with the years but shone bright and fresh in the bard. As well as the alluring quality of his innocence and that sweet voice…yes, there were many reasons why Newt was proving to be a distraction of almost debilitating proportions.

As he knelt by the prone boy, gently smoothing a hand over the youth’s mussed copper curls and across his bare, trembling shoulder, Gellert allowed himself a few moments to relish the sight of the slumbering bard. Newt’s eyelids twitched almost feverishly over his roving eyes, pale, porcelain face covered in a light sheen of sweat even in his sleep. Gellert had removed the toy from him the day before; the working of metal and magic had served its purpose now that the boy was suitably stretched, accustomed and chastised. Of course, that wasn’t all that it did -- no, it would instil a constant readiness in the bard from now on, the sap from his pet worked into the malleable object to leave Newt in a constant state of near need – easily tipped over the edge until the effects wore off, though that would not happen for days yet. It also served to keep him clean and open for Gellert’s use, to keep him ready at all times, the threads and structures of the bard’s biology altered and warped to Gellert’s will as most things were. Even if he couldn’t draw the truth from the bard or bend him to his will in the simpler fashion he had grown accustomed to, Gellert could still utilise the lingering creations of his own hallowed possession – none could truly resist it, no matter their gift. None that Gellert had yet encountered.

The Ebony Spindle was truly remarkable, and though Gellert coveted the trinity of hallowed objects, the one he possessed was by far the most impressive in its power and unassuming appearance – the others were what he sought to establish his dominance over the powers of creation, illusion and death itself. For why would he ever leave such valuable, unique items to be wasted and misused by others? No, he would get all the information he needed from the Graverobber – the locations of the hallow he had stolen and any other snippets that Grindelwald might find useful. The thief’s identity too, while he was at it. It was a mild curiosity, one intensified by the magic that must have crafted the Riskant spymaster’s mask – such magic that went into defying Grindelwald and all he built. And yet again, Grindelwald’s thoughts led him back to the bard. For whatever reason, the thief seemed to value Newt’s opinion – wanted to be seen as noble, or at the very least, not the thieving scum he was, in the bard’s eyes. In all the years of their game of cat and mouse, ever since Grindelwald had run the other’s reputation – such as it was – into the ground and below, the spymaster had never sought out the approval of others. He had evidently realised his reputation was shot, that his solitary nature would work to his advantage in hiding and dodging from Gellert’s clutches like the vermin he was. But something in the bard had subverted that behaviour. Perhaps he sensed the same power that Gellert did, or perhaps it was the boy’s pretty face and abusable, stubborn nature – he had heard their conversations, of course, and decided that keeping them adjacent, at least for a little while, could prove to make both more malleable.

Though now, Gellert wagered that Newt required a soft touch to show the boy that his master was just as capable of being a soothing force as a castigating one; and that the bard must learn to rely upon him for both. Then Gellert would blur the lines between the two until Newton sought him for everything he needed. Until the bard learnt the way of things, the order of Nurmengard and the way of the world that Gellert was sculpting. He brushed a hand over Newt’s chained ankle, releasing him from the floor while leaving the fetching, twining metal beast that wrapped it. Gellert’s satisfied eyes roved over the bard’s slumbering form, the way his long, slender legs curved with the lithe lines of his body. The way his fingers curled unconsciously around the stiff leather of the cuffs that bound him; evidently having sought a way to release the seamless material from his wrists if the small scratches on the boy’s wrists and the leather were any gauge. He tutted a little at the damage the bard had done himself, seeing too the bruises around his collar, ankles and all along the soles of his feet from where he had kicked at the floor, likely in distress or his attempts to escape.

Gellert brushed a hand carefully over Newt’s cheek, this time causing the bard to stir a little, eyelids flickering open an inch, revealing a thin band of white before slipping closed again. Slightly amused by this, Gellert hummed lowly and spoke in a coaxing voice, “Come now, little one, I have something here for you.” Newt curled into himself tighter, legs kicking out aimlessly at nothing, feet pressing against the stone and rolling away from him a little. “Don’t be like that, Newton, it’s water. You must be thirsty.”

He picked up the cup with one hand, cradling Newt’s head with the other, his curl-covered skull resting heavily in Gellert’s palm as the mage tilted Newt’s head up to offer the bard a drink, letting the cool liquid run over his slightly parted lips. It seemed to work in rousing him a little more and the bard moaned, eyes flickering open and fixing upon Gellert slowly but with apparent clarity. He surprised Gellert by not attempting to flinch back or fight, the submissiveness perhaps a testament to his thirst as he parted his lips and drank obediently. Not seeming to question the offering or its giver – Gellert was unsure what to think of this new amiable behaviour but he did not intend to lower his guard so soon.

“T-th-hank you...” came the murmured response when Gellert finally took the empty cup away, and the bard’s voice sounded stronger than it had done in some time despite its shaky quality.

“Feeling a little more amenable?”

Newt nodded, the barest movement of his chin bobbing forward, tucking his head forward to rest on the cool floor once more but not entirely out of Gellert’s palm, a perhaps encouraging sign for a less sceptical man. Gellert tested the bard’s resolve a little more by brushing a hand down Newt’s side, fingers caressing the raised, reddened skin of old scars that wrapped him like an artiste’s brushstrokes, rough and somehow smooth over an untarnished, freckle-scattered canvas. Newt shuddered a little but again, he failed to move away. The involuntary tremors seemed to be his only reaction, and sea-stained eyes remained open, lids lowered slightly but looking ahead, somewhere about Gellert’s shoulder. The mage scraped a hand through Newt’s mop of copper curls, pushing it back from his damp face and drawing a soft sigh, satisfied with the feeling of the soft, coiled strands passing through his fingers. He rubbed a thumb over the corner of Newt’s plush lips, tracing the plump pink shape of them and savouring the little choked breath that left the bard as he pressed a little inward, the boy’s eyes closed momentarily, blinking back moisture before they opened again, remaining empty yet focussed.

“How are we feeling today, then?”

Newt blinked and inclined his head a little, not perhaps giving a suitable answer, but at least giving a response rather than the utter blankness Gellert saw eating at the edge of the young man before him. He wanted the boy submissive, yes, but not catatonic, not empty and unresponsive. To right that wrong, Gellert felt that a little motivation was in order. Simple things first, of course -- he couldn’t allow the boy to expect forgiveness and rewards quite so swiftly after disobedience and defiance, which the bard showed him when he attempted to viciously sever his finger. Though the damage had been easily healed, the pain had been intense and the act unquestionably rebellious – unacceptable. It was why Gellert had left Newt in the cell as long as he had, and why he would be slow to offer mercy.

“You will eat. Regain your strength, little Ræv,” he lifted a single berry from the plate he’d brought, the dark purple-black skin of the fruit almost splitting under the pressure of the ripe juice inside and brought it to Newt’s lips. The bard’s hands jerked up, ready to take the food, but Gellert caught the chain connecting the cuffs with his spare hand, pulling it down and pinning it against his hips. He offered the berry again firmly. Newt met his eyes warily, parting his lips just enough to allow the morsel through and chewing briefly before swallowing, not breaking the near eye contact the entire time. Newt took the next berry presented to him and the next and the next until the plate was half-empty and the bard was beginning to look a touch queasy, likely from the sweetness after so long without sustenance. Gellert stopped, letting his fingers linger at Newt’s mouth, smearing spilt crimson juices over each lip, staining them a tempting shade that matched the gauzy material that swathed pale, perfectly-imperfect skin. The kohl that Gellert had brushed and lined under Newt’s eyes had smeared a little with the boy’s sweat and tears but a careful pass of his master’s thumb under the areas sorted the problem and curved Grindelwald’s lips in a wider smile. 

Newt’s eyes drifted closed then, and at first, Gellert thought that the bard’s patience for his touches had reached its end and that the boy would snap at him as he had before, but he did not. No, instead, Gellert’s two fingers were allowed past the ridge of even, alarmingly sharp teeth and sucked into Newt’s mouth as the bard’s cheeks hollowed. Grindelwald watched him with half-lidded eyes, enjoying the sensation of Newt taking him in voluntarily, though granted not as much as the _divine_ feeling of those superb lips around his cock. It hadn’t been quite as good before, what with the necessary measure of the ring gag forcing the bard’s teeth apart – a necessary precaution to prevent those sharp teeth from attempting to savage any more flesh.

With that thought in mind, Grindelwald pulled his fingers back from the bard’s mouth, pleased on a carnal level at the show of submission and perhaps pseudo-enthusiasm, but not willing to risk the digits being nearly severed again. Instead, he cupped Newt’s jaw, tilting his head back carefully to meet the wall, helping the bard to sit almost upright against the cool, stable surface. Grindelwald stroked affectionately along Newt’s soft, barely stubbled cheek, his jawline, face hovering scant inches before the other. Newt swallowed, watching him with wide, open, painfully bright eyes, berry-stained lips lush and slightly parted still as he seemed to be struggling with something – whether it be breath or emotions, Gellert found himself not really caring much as he surged forward.

He fisted Newt’s hair, tugging roughly to angle the boy’s head to one side, causing him to gasp and give Gellert the opportunity to press his lips to Newt’s in a fierce, claiming kiss. The boy tasted sweet, of the berries he had so willingly consumed from Grindelwald’s fingertips, but there was an earthy taste too, something coppery and bitter lining his lips as Gellert licked in. Likely blood. Likely his own blood. A lingering sweetness too, distinctive and unmistakable from Gellert’s pet – the sweet nectar that worked so well at making his other pets so…manageable. And eager. Though there was more to be explored within that taste than the simple surface layers of such a gesture. There was something else, something that he chased and craved, something that he had tasted before, but it came through more strongly now. A trace of fire. A singing heat that burned through his senses on contact and drew him in for more.

Grindelwald snarled, tugging viciously on Newt’s hair to better angle the kiss, feeling desire pool white-hot and ready in his belly as the boy began to kiss him back. Tentative perhaps, a little sloppy, but slowly growing in confidence as the young man attempted to recreate what Gellert was giving him. It lacked the fierce strength, experience and desire that the older mage was capable of, but Newt’s careful reciprocation held a delicious freshness, like soft summer rain turning to heavy spring showers. Still warm and soothing to the senses but bringing a promise of something else...something more.

Gellert broke off with a gasping breath, dotting his affection in sweet stinging marks across the bard’s cheeks and chin, his jawline and throat, before finally letting his lips and teeth find his ear. “So sweet, such fire...you’re a good little creature when you’re well kept, aren’t you? Just as long as you’re looked after, a little care and some rest and you’ll purr so sweetly for me, won’t you, pet?

Newt’s Adam’s apple bobbed along with his throat as he swallowed audibly, lips parted and breath coming in heavy, hitching pants. His hands were fluttering uselessly against Gellert’s leather-clad chest, without quite pushing away: the feel of fumbling fingers fitting in leather –- something tangible to cling onto. Something safe. The thought of Newt using him as such an anchor so early on in his training gave Gellert’s slightly pleasure-hazed mind a unique kind of thrill. He pushed forward again, pressing his tongue deeper into Newt’s mouth than he’d ventured before, caressing the red inner caverns of the younger man before bringing a hand up to tease the shiny new piercing in Newt’s nipple. A shuddering breath escaped the bard, transforming swiftly into a high keen, then a soft whine as Gellert fiddled with the metal clamping the tender peaked nub of pretty pink flesh, his nail teasing the slit. Grindelwald let his thumb brush just over the piercing, stroking softly over the raised red-white flesh of the spider scar- where his first gift to the bard had disappeared into the boy’s intoxicating flesh. So very strange a reaction to Gellert’s affections. He still did not entirely understand it, but he intended to. Lest the insidious little creation – involuntary or not – cause future harm to his newest, perhaps most treasured possession.

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Newt shut himself into a very sheltered place within himself during the kiss. With each moment that passed, he let himself wander further into the green thicket of oak trees and silver birches, he let his fingers drift over the trunks, both rough and smoother in his mind’s eyes. He let his bare toes bury themselves into the damp, cool earth, sink in the springy moss and occasional spatters of puddles that dotted the forest path. He let his body move itself through the familiar memory as opposed to the unknown and unwanted reality. 

When it ended, however, he was left with the very real feeling of stinging, tingling marks across his lips, cheeks, neck and jaw. He was left with that awfully familiar taste in his mouth, souring his senses. But more importantly, he was also allowed the one thing he asked from Grindelwald as a reward for his feigned enthusiasm and ‘good behaviour’. As much as it unnerved and itched at him to allow the intimacy, having Grindelwald summon his precious lute to him was reward enough; the warm, slightly rough wood cradled in his cuffed hands and against his bare chest. It was a comfort and a small bead of hope. Not only in the idea that he could hold onto a trace of his past, a suitable reminder and memorandum of a life before this, but also as a tool that he could utilise in his blooming, burgeoning concept of escape. For after Grindelwald had left the cell, after the mage had bid him more rest and contemplation and to keep his lithe fingers active and nimble – a request that had resulted in a shudder from the bard as the older man brushed possessive fingers over his chin in farewell – Newt had sought the secret that resided within the lute. He pushed cautious, trembling fingers under the strings and into the hollow body of the instrument, careful the whole time of the easy damage that could befall the precious piece of his past and identity. And Newt was rewarded once more, rewarded with the sensation of tiny, spindly, spiky green fingers pressing back at his fingertips. The Bowtruckle, disgruntled and hungry from days hiding within his instrument – both out of a long-borne habit and only days before at Newt’s behest – emerged from the bard’s lute.

“Hey, Pickett,” Newt murmured, so softly that he barely heard it himself, but the answering chirrups he received were enough to bring soft, stinging tears to the bard’s eyes. He brought Pickett up to his face, cuffed hands linked and chain dangling as the Bowtruckle reached a tiny hand up to pat at Newt’s cheek in a consoling, almost bolstering manner. The tree-dweller looked down at the bonds holding Newt together, holding him down and instantly began chirping, trying to scrabble down the bard’s body to help, but Newt quickly hushed his small friend and ceased his movements. He shuffled across the stone floor, as far as the chain hobbling his ankle allowed, placing his lute aside momentarily as he spoke softly and as low as he could manage once he was by the low metal grate. “Pickett? Pickett, I need you to do something very important for me,” he took a shaky breath and gave a watery smile at the curious, bead-black eyes regarding him, “I need you to go through to the next cell and help the man in there all you can. Get him free if you can, and then hurry right back to me and hide. If you can’t manage it, don’t risk yourself, just come back here, please? I know you’re hungry, and I understand it if you took a nibble on my lute, but I promise you’ll get a better snack once we’re all out of here.”

The responding chirps drew a weak laugh from the bard who gently placed Pickett down on one of the lower metal rings that formed the grill, hoping beyond anything that his friend would be able to both release the thief and return safely. As much as Newt might harbour reasonable doubts about the stranger dwelling in the adjacent cell, he knew with alarming certainty that the man didn’t belong here anymore than Newt did – he didn’t deserve the malice and abuse that Grindelwald could deal out. He couldn’t think of anyone that did. And simply from a pragmatic point of affairs – discounting the warm, tight feeling he got when he heard the thief’s low, rough voice – the other man would likely be as good a companion and escape aid as anyone else Newt had met here. More so, in fact. He couldn’t see the blonde woman, this strange Phoenix character, Jareth the supposed hunter or Sebastian jumping to his defence as the thief had attempted to. No, if he was going to make a good go of getting out of here and away from Grindelwald, he was going to make sure he had an apparently accomplished assassin, spymaster and thief at his side as he did it. It didn’t hurt that the other prisoner seemed an engaging and intriguing companion, the enigmas woven so thoroughly into him in a way Newt hadn’t before experienced. Except perhaps with his old mentor. In a way, there was a keen glint, a familiar evasiveness, occasional kindness and a firm resolve in both that reminded Newt of the creatures he had grown to know and love in his time. A nature that could be explored by only the intrepidly empathetic. 

It was with some satisfaction and no small amount of relief that, some time later, he heard the sounds of metal shackles falling to the ground. They were accompanied by several groans and shuffling, scraping sounds before an exhaled curse echoed through the grate. “Goddamnit, bard, if you didn’t really go and pull a fair trick here, I don’t know what is,” a low chuckle. “Now let's get the hell out of here, if you’ve got no objections?” 


	9. A rather mediocre escape

Percival had experienced a plethora of odd things in his life. As such, the appearance of a collection of small green twigs from the wall grate, its movement across the floor of the cell before crawling up his body and releasing him from his chains, should perhaps not have surprised him as much as it did. But experience be damned if he didn’t stare dumbly at the tiny green stick figure for a few solid moments of bafflement before he did anything with his newfound freedom. He let his arms drop slowly, rolling his aching, clicking joints and massaging the deadened limbs back into some semblance of life. He got up slowly, thankful to his infinitely stronger left leg that he could stand at all, what with the pain tearing through his injured one. It was just his luck that Grindelwald had stabbed the leg that could actually be harmed but then again, he just counted himself fortunate that he had a chance to get out of here before the torture escalated. His gift was flowing freely again, the warmth and familiarity of it heating his body like lifeblood and leaving him somewhat more invigorated, muscles twitching and tensing at the sudden reconnection to what was rightfully his.

Percival carefully cupped the small creature that had helped him, meeting beady black eyes with puzzled inquisitiveness, hearing a nonsensical stream of chirps levelled at him and merely arching an eyebrow in response. The chirrups stopped as Percival brought the creature closer to examine it and let out a silent curse as the thing poked him irritably in the nose with sharp, claw-like fingers, swiftly drawing back and eying the path the creature had taken from the grate to the adjoining cell.

He could only imagine that this was either a trick by Grindelwald or else a jailbreak devised by the abused bard. Either way, it seemed foolish to waste the chance he was being given so he called, “Goddamnit, bard, if you didn’t really go and pull a fair trick here, I don’t know what is,” and let out a bemused chuckle. “Now let's get the hell out of here, if you’ve got no objections?”

He heard no reply but was not particularly surprised, only hoping that the other had heard and knew that whatever he’d sent through – if it had indeed been him – had succeeded in freeing Percival. The spymaster wasted no time in hurrying over to the wall sconce, removing the lit torch and inspecting the metal end of the holder dubiously. It was a little thin perhaps, but it should serve his purposes, nonetheless. He went over to the door, levelling the lit end of the torch at the wood surrounding the lock, taking a deep breath and focussing his now free magic before exhaling out more than just air, breathing his will out to meet the solid material. The flame flared bright and white-hot, hot enough to burn through wood and metal alike, melting the lock and causing the door to fall open in mere seconds. 

He stepped out cautiously into the corridor, wary of any traps or further security measures that might’ve been put in place, not sensing anything obvious as he extended his gift down the corridor, the air tasting of disuse but no evident magical malice. It was only when he pushed it into the next cell along that he found the swirling maelstrom of magic, humming, thrumming and swirling. Some of it was fixed and held a clear purpose, but most didn’t. It felt dizzying just to perceive and Percival quickly slunk his senses back to where they belonged, even as his body followed the chaos down to where it centred, taking care of the door in the same way he had his own. He glanced up and down the corridor in a cursory sweep before entering, leaving the door slightly ajar but hopefully not enough to be noticed should anyone walk past.

The cell was brighter – likely so their perverted captor could get a good eyeful of the bard sprawled out on the floor. It hardly seemed fair how beautiful Newt looked where he lay, the image tainted by how wrecked and wretched the bard seemed – dressed to accent his fine features and smelling strongly of ecstasy, sweat and unfortunately still of fear and fire. It was an intoxicating cocktail of sights, sounds and smells that left Percival conflicted but he pushed past it all as he knelt swiftly beside the bard, grasping Newt’s arm and helping him sit up straighter.

Wide sea-stained, kohl-lined eyes looked back at him from under a flop of copper fringe, Newt’s bruised, stained lips parting as he panted slightly. The younger man’s gaze dropped to the tiny passenger who had ridden the spymaster’s shoulder back to his…master? friend? family? Percival couldn’t be sure of the relationship between the creature and the bard, but it seemed to be one of mutual comfort and familiarity as spindly fingers got to work on the bard’s bonds. Newt’s expression was sober, almost dull but for the tremors that rushed his slender frame. Even as Percival felt an odd sort of contentment in being allowed to console Newt, he was uneasy that the bard had not shifted from his light grasp. Newt had seemed to be strung tense, all raw nerves exposed to stimulation in the previous torment. Since their captor had brutally taken his pleasure from Newt by shoving his cock down Newt's unwilling throat - and nearly suffocated the poor lad - Newt had grown oddly quiet.

“You’re hurt,” Newt’s voice was soft and concerned, but it still held that same dullness that resided in his gaze. A touch of self-preservation, it seemed. Newt's now-free hand came down to brush the air just above Percival’s pierced leg, eyes inspecting the wound before skating over his bruised and blackened ribcage. Percival couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered sadly upon the raw red marks marring the bard’s slim wrists, the skin at the base of his hands scabbing slightly where he had struggled and been grated harshly against the stone with another man’s weight upon him. All he wanted to do in that moment was soothe the younger man but could not imagine that Newt’s thin veneer of control would allow such comfort from a near-stranger.

Percival brushed off the oddly-welcome concern with a smile in his voice, even if it couldn’t be seen by the other, “Nothing to worry about, I’ve had much worse.” His tone became awkward, however, as he realised the only physical thing that could hamper their escape now was the solid working of magic that was plugging up Newt’s abused arse. His dark eyes flickered downward awkwardly to where the skirt barely concealed the ghastly thing. “But this…”

Newt’s face turned such a vibrant colour that it almost matched the shade of the outfit he’d been forced into, “I…I don’t know…”

“Do you want me to turn around or-?”

Newt bit his lip, gnawing the already worried skin to the point it started to bead with blood and Percival had to physically stop himself from reaching forward to brush the droplets away and halt the harm the younger man was causing himself.

“I-...um yes, yes please…”

Percival did as he’d suggested, turning to face the door, keeping his eyes trained on the sliver of corridor he could see beyond it as he heard shifting and the sound of a barely-muffled, pained gasp come from behind him. He clenched his jaw as the sounds of discomfort continued, forcing himself to allay his concern and impatience, resisting the urge to jitter nervously on the spot – a most uncharacteristic behaviour in him. The spymaster very nearly turned when he heard a soft sob come from behind him and clenched his fists so hard at his sides that his knuckles popped unpleasantly. “Newt-...are you sure that you can do this on your own?” He took a deep breath, “Do you need any help with-”

“No! No, no, I can- _ah_!” the bard’s soft voice was cut off with such a cry, so full of pain and desperation that Percival threw his better caution to the wind and turned, kneeling swiftly beside Newt and almost freezing in place as he saw the situation properly for himself.

Newt’s fingers were curled and clenched impossibly tight around the solid end of the mass filling him but the problem presenting itself was not the strength of his grasp but more the fact that there was no edge nor base to grip onto. There were scratched red marks visible against pale flesh where Newt had clearly tried to claw the thing free, where he had grown desperate when the object had not moved like he needed it to and simply begun to scrabble at the plug with frantic nails in the hopes of getting it out. Newt’s face was a red mess of tears and messy hair that stuck to his cheeks and forehead like seaweed to a rock. He looked pained, frustrated, a little angry even but most of all, he just looked scared. Scared that the thing in him would never come loose and that he’d be forever stuck as Grindelwald’s plaything. It was a fear that Percival could understand well and he was as gentle as he could be when he ran a hand over Newt’s arm, hesitating only briefly before he caught the younger man’s hand in his own, smoothing his fingers firmly over Newt’s clenched knuckles until he loosened his grip. Percival pressed his fingertips tenderly to Newt’s, smiling softly, encouragingly when the bard’s watering eyes moved to meet his – the spymaster for the first time regretting that the other could not see his face. 

“I’m sorry, but we need to get out of here and as much as I’d like to let you get it out in your own time, I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” he met other’s gaze firmly and saw something solidify in those sea-stained spheres – understanding, perhaps. “Either let me try or we leave now and try to get it out later. Which would you prefer?”

He felt Newt flinch under him and was prepared to withdraw, to let the man up and deal with the issue later when the circumstances were hopefully less similar to the ones that had left the bard frightened and abused. But then Newt nodded, a bare dip of his head, chin meeting chest as he looked away, turning a little to give Percival better access even as he buried his head in his blood-freckled hands, forehead touching the stone as he spoke in a voice so small, “Do it…please…just do it now so it can be over with.”

“Alright,” Percival murmured and looked at the plug for only a few moments before attempting to touch it. Though his touch was light and almost tentative in his care for his fellow prisoner, he hissed and drew away as the object seemed to burn him, Newt jerking like a worm caught in a bird’s claw, lithe spine arching and legs kicking out, tears flowing anew as the thing seemed to swell inside him. Newt’s rim looked sore and stretched, the outline of the object pressing him outward, bulging slightly under the skin. Percival rubbed a hand gently over Newt’s lower back, practically petting him in an attempt to soothe the pain he’d caused. Whatever foul magic it was, it was clearly not meant to be taken out by anyone but Grindelwald. The sadistic bastard had probably put in this failsafe in case of just such an eventuality as an attempted escape.

“Shit,” he muttered as the black solid substance seemed to seal itself tight like tar to Newt’s no-doubt sensitive rim, Percival’s view of the thing obstructed as Newt’s unhelpfully pert arse clenched under the pain he was suffering and Percival sighed through gritted teeth before pulling the sarong down over the damage. “I’m sorry, I really am but I think that’s just going to have to stay where it is for now. I promise I’ll find a way to get it out later but for now, I think it's in our best interests to get the hell out of here.”

Newt nodded bravely, shifting and wincing but managing to lever himself upright, his tiny green passenger disappearing from view as it scurried a nest into the bard’s messy hair. Percival took a careful but firm hold of his arms and guided him with bare shoulders up onto his feet, the bard shaking like a new-born colt on unsteady legs but managing it all the same. His jaw was set, eyes hard and blank again even as they brimmed with dampness at the fullness within him and the humiliation he was no doubt suffering. And Percival very deliberately did _not_ linger on the half-hardened evidence of the bard's abuse he felt brush against him as he helped Newt to his feet.

Newt pulled away hastily from the support he offered and, in all honesty, Percival couldn’t really blame him after everything the young man had been through. He led the way toward the door, peeking out before slipping into the corridor. The thief heard the uneven steps follow him and reached back a beckoning hand, taking the bard’s forearm and tugging him along behind him so that he didn’t lose him. 

The hall was long and dim, lined with dozens of marked doors on either side, some marked with red symbols that resembled a diagonally tilted cross, some with blue rectangles missing a right side and even more than held gleaming golden circles. Glancing back, he saw that Newt’s cell had not been marked at all whilst his own prison had been marked with the blue near-rectangle. He guessed that the symbol had something to do with strengthening the defences of the door or perhaps to mark the abilities of the cell's inhabitants. It was unclear and he did not stop to consider any but felt Newt’s arm leave his hand as he slowed, padding on bare feet as he peered curiously and with some apprehension at the nearest door behind him that held a red mark.

“Newt?”

“Just…give me a minute…please?”

Percival resisted the urge to growl at the younger man, “We don’t _have_ a minute.”

Newt didn’t seem to be listening however as he stepped forward and pressed his hand to the door, palm flat before he gasped and stepped back hurriedly, “There’s someone in there.”

That gave Percival pause if only for a moment, “Someone? Like a person?”

“Well, not a person exactly, I don’t think, I can’t be sure, but there’s someone in there and they’re _scared_ – bloody petrified.” Newt’s voice was soft and hoarse, as if the fear he spoke of was leaking into him as he sensed it. 

“Not surprising if they had a welcome anything like ours,” Percival muttered, glancing left and right down the corridor before sighing and approaching the door to stand beside where Newt was still staring at it intently. “Do you think it's safe to let whatever is in there _out_?”

Newt paused, eyes slipping closed for a few seconds before he answered, “Not safe exactly…but I think he could help us. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to escape Grindelwald.”

“Newt, I don’t think we have time to be doing this,” Percival cautioned firmly. “Besides, I don’t know if trusting random unknown entities that Grindelwald had locked up here is a great idea.”

“You trusted me,” Newt reminded him quietly and Percival opened his mouth to correct the bard but then let it snap shut a second later as he realised the lad was right. Instead, he took in a deep breath and took hold of Newt’s forearm, careful of his injured wrist and pulled him back down the hall firmly but not as harshly as his impatience might’ve dictated.

Newt looked conflicted but went along all the same, though his head turned, eyes skating down each line of cells before he pulled them to a stop again toward the next corner with an almost mischievous grin creeping across his face. It was both oddly contagious and a touch intimidating to witness. “What about _known_ entities? Say, the creatures that have been clambering at me to let them help for the past few days?”

“For the love of-…Newt…are you sure they’re going to help us?” he sighed, sorely tempted by the potential for causing chaos right in the heart of Grindelwald’s compound but also healthily wary of the nature of the very creatures that had worked their captor’s own brand of carnage in past.

“Just-…trust me. They want to help. And I think I can help them get free of Grindelwald,” his voice turned soft and earnest, “I at least owe it to them to try.” He offered a small smile, adding in an almost a wheedling tone, “Come on, you got both of us out of our cells pretty easily, I’m sure you can manage it for them, oh spymaster extraordinaire.”

“Alright, fine, but…please don’t make me regret doing this,” Percival half-grumbled but regarded the bard for a moment before sending another bout of flame from the end of the torch he still held, aiming it solidly at the locks of two nearest doors, drawing the power from the flames and his own gift and intensifying the heat until the chosen doors shook, quivered and then cracked right off their hinges. He blinked. The spell shouldn’t have had quite so dramatic an effect as that. His confusion was answered very swiftly as roaring flames emitted from the left-hand door, quickly followed by a swarm of small lizard-like creatures. The distinctive and intimidating visage of a Chimaera emerged from the other door. 

Percival raised the torch, ready to defend himself should it come to it as the creatures circled closer but Newt pulled down his arm hastily, eyes firm as he shook his head.

“No, they don’t want to hurt us, and even if they did, fire isn’t going to do much against Salamanders – they love it, just look.”

Percival had to admit that the dozens of creatures looked happy enough running about in the flames that had engulfed their cell but his torch could still be useful against the Chimaera should it come to it so, whilst he did lower it to a less offensive stance, he didn’t relinquish his tool entirely. He watched on in surprise and a touch of a flush to his neck as he saw Newt approach the Chimaera, who stood in a powerful stance ahead of them, halfway inside its cell still. Its head was that of a lion, proud keen eyes and a golden mane streaked liberally with darker hairs about its scalp, cloven hooves and an oddly muscular body resembling that of a massively overgrown ashen furred goat, its tail was long, thick and scaled with a mesh of shimmering green – a hybrid amalgamation of odd beasts that somehow gelled to form a proud, intimidating creature. Its eyes were a flaming, intense gold, almost glowing in the dim light of the corridor, the flame of Percival’s torch reflecting oddly blankly off of the flat surfaces. He wasn’t entirely sure if he could trust Newt’s assertation that the thing meant no harm. Especially not with the way it was growling low and vicious in its throat as it watched the two men.

Newt approached with soft, careful steps across the stone floor, sarong swirling elegantly around his hips and ankles, billowing slightly and giving the bard the look of a dancer even as the hand he did not have outstretched toward the beast irritably fisted the material slightly to one side, clearly exasperated by the way it impeded his movement. His hair fell softly into his face as Newt swept the band restraining it from his face with that same exasperation and tucked the loose strands back as best he could, dropping the circlet to the floor. The chain that connected his distractingly adorned nipple and ear seemed another hindrance as Newt’s arms repeatedly brushed it as he moved forward but he ignored it save for a small wince as the Chimaera’s low rumbling grew louder and the creature lunged forward. Percival was two steps forward, torch beginning to rise again before Newt let out a grit-teeth command.

“No, stay there.”

Percival halted and tilted his head around Newt to get a better view, eyes going wide as he saw the beast’s jaws locked firmly around Newt’s forearm, “Newt, what the-”

“It's alright, just trust me,” Newt muttered through gritted teeth in a surprisingly even voice considering the pained tension visible in the clenched muscles of his back and the set of his jaw. Small rivulets of blood were tracing from where the beast’s teeth were puncturing the bard’s flesh, the growling subsiding a little as the Chimaera apparently savoured its mouthful. Was the bard insane? The thing could rip his arm off and dive in for the rest of Newt at any second! What the hell was the lad playing at?

But then the astonishing happened and Newt let out a low laugh. Percival blinked, thoroughly nonplussed as the Chimaera withdrew, gently licking at the wounds it had created before letting out another low rumbling and practically scampering off down the corridor on clattering hooves. It sped past Percival and Newt turned to the spymaster with a grin, cradling his bitten arm to his chest, apparently heedless of the blood soaking it or the skirt he wore, “Not to worry, he’s clearing the path ahead for us. There are quite a few guards in the corridor above and he kindly warned me of them – they haven’t been very kind to him in past and I think he wants to return the favour.”

“Before or after he took a chunk out of you?” Percival asked, his voice an octave higher as he stared at the younger man in disbelief. Newt rolled his eyes.

“Just their way of saying hello – like a handshake. It’s a test of strength and disposition. They can sense a lot from just one bite.” He did an awkward half-shrug, “Yan sensed enough of me already to know he could trust me and now he knows I can trust him. Mutual respect is all.”

Percival arched an incredulous eyebrow even though he knew the other couldn’t actually see the gesture, “I’ll take your word for it.” He heard loud yells and the odd crash coming from nearby and caught Newt around the shoulder swiftly, guiding him as quick as he dared down the corridor after the beast, eying the following Salamanders warily out of the corner of his eye. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

“What about the rest of them?” Newt asked, eyes flitting to the cells they passed and Percival shook his head, pulling him along faster and wincing slightly at the panting gasps that were being drawn from the bard’s throat as his discomfort no doubt increased. But there was nothing he could do about that now.

“We don’t have time. It’s a damn miracle that no one has raised an alarm yet, we have to go!” When Newt looked ready to argue Percival finally snapped and growled, “Do you really want to risk sticking around long enough for Grindelwald to lock us back up again? I don’t think he’ll be particularly forgiving or lenient in his punishments, do you?”

Newt flinched, his earlier humour cracking and peeling away like dead skin, revealing the emptiness Percival had seen before and whilst Percival felt a stab of guilt ache his gut, it succeeded in speeding the bard’s feet and silencing his protests. For now, at least. They turned corner after corner, corridors twining into one another and catacombing like a hive and Percival could only do what he ever did and follow his sharper-than-average instincts. The sounds of screams and roars helped too, however. It wasn’t long before they were stepping over grislily injured figures, still alive it seemed but certainly not in any fit state to be chasing after the escaped prisoners. It seemed that Newt had encouraged the creature to reign in his homicidal tendencies and revert more to injury and incapacitation rather than lethal force. He could’ve sworn he heard murmured apologies leave the bard’s lips close behind him as he dragged the younger man along, but if he did, neither acknowledged it. 

The only point that slowed them down was once they reached the upper levels – the part of the brothel-cum-fortress that was populated by people and wealthy customers. The place where they were most likely to run into Grindelwald or his elusive, psychotic partner. They paused at the last door, finally catching up with the Chimaera, who had apparently finally given in to temptation and was happily munching upon the innards of some unfortunate lackey. Newt looked suitably aghast and the creature growled lowly before stepping away from the corpse at a stern glare from the bard. “Now what did I say about entrails? They’ll just make you sick, surely you should know that by now?”

Newt caught Percival’s stunned look and quickly interjected, “I asked him to only kill if he was in mortal danger. He” -a gesture toward the dead man- “had a gift, a strong one, and was going to skin Yan alive.” 

Once again, Percival wisely decided not to comment upon the interaction or the odd name choice lest his already fragile patience and temporary comprehension of Newt’s habits and abilities turn to as much mulch as the unfortunate's stomach they stood above. “Uh right, so any bright ideas as to how we can get through the main levels without drawing too much attention?”

Newt raised an incredulous eyebrow at him, “I thought _you_ were the spymaster and thief, not me.”

Percival harrumphed before replying sarcastically, “Yes, but you seem to be the one with all the fantastic beasts at your disposal.”

Newt rolled his eyes, a movement playfully, perhaps inappropriately accented by the shimmer of dark colour and kohl rimming his eyes.

“Well you’ve probably already noticed that neither Chimaera nor Salamanders are exactly stealthy so unless you want a full-frontal assault, I don’t think they’re going to be much help from here on out.”

Percival had been seriously considering it and Newt didn’t hesitate to catch on and intercede with his thought process, hissing, “No, no, no, no, they’re sentient creatures and you are _not_ going to use them as mage fodder!” 

“Alright, alright,” Percival conceded. “Do you have any better ideas?”

Newt paused for a moment, eyes roving over the courtyard visible outside before he brightened, “As it happens, I do.”

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Newt was tremoring beneath the surface. The adrenalin and the contact with new and interesting, though oddly familiar creatures were helping to maintain a mostly steady façade but beneath it, he was roiling. The threat of the nearby creatures rebelling should he lose control was the only thing keeping him in check. He couldn’t let his inner turmoil amplify that of his beast companions and be what caused them to lose their lives or be harmed recklessly …or to hurt an innocent human. Though no one he’d met here so far seemed entirely blameless, he wasn’t sure how far his grief could spread and how dramatic an effect it might have should he lose control. So he simply didn’t. He kept up with the Graverobber and kept up a front for both his creature and human companion to keep them at ease as best he could. Thankfully, the plentiful distractions had helped to abate the unwanted arousal that had been stirred within him but it made it no less humiliating to know that his companion had felt it against him. It was bad enough having his own body respond to the mistreatment it was enduring: Newt could have done without his arousal rubbing through the flimsy gauze against the one person who seemed not to be attempting to molest him lately. The arousal still shimmered in him, barely beneath the surface like a low-grade heat haze, but with all the plentiful exercise and distractions, Newt was temporarily finding ways to get past it.

Now, as he crept through the foliage surrounding the edges of the courtyard and toward the stables, he paused in a particularly dense patch of shrubbery, closing his eyes and reaching out his senses to the horses housed in the stables. He had asked his companion to stay with the Chimaera and Salamanders in the relative cover of the corridor that led to the lower levels whilst he snuck forward – much to the chagrin of the thief who had pointed out that he would be stealthier. Whilst Newt had been inclined to agree, what with the spymaster’s inherent covertness and also less conspicuous dress compared to Newt’s state, he had also made the valid point that the spy wouldn’t have as much luck soothing and persuading two mounts to come with them without a fuss. The older man had agreed but Newt had a feeling it was more to do with the still smarting deep bruising that marred one side of his chest from his last encounter with the steeds here rather than any particular faith in Newt’s ability to be stealthy.

He sent a caution out to the creatures he’d left with the masked man not to harm him or come out from hiding just yet – to protect the human they accompanied should it come to it – and then threw his mind out to the two swifter horses he sensed nearby. The reaction wasn’t quite what he intended as the creatures reared and stomped dramatically in reaction to the tentative push and kicked a hole through the nearest wall. Newt gasped, eyes flying open as he fell back against the warm wall behind him, heaving in terrified breaths. He felt hot pressure pushing at his brain and cried out, half-sobbing as the sensation and white-hot pain doubled, clutching his forehead in white-knuckled hands. He felt something hot and wet stream down his face, tickling his cheeks and the sensitive skin between his nose and mouth. He tasted coppery blood and hacked and spit it out fiercely as his eyes sprung back open, and he scrambled up and away from both the agonising crushing feeling within his mind and the panicking, terrified horses. 

Newt had just managed to clear his sight and most of the fuzz from his head when a cry rang out, several voices simultaneously drawing attention to the bard’s presence as he stumbled back across the courtyard. He had no idea what had caused the agony that still needled at him and slowed his aching limbs but he pushed past the ongoing discomfort of the thing lodged inside him and the pounding in his skull as he sprinted forward. The horses were a no go with the sudden loss of control and the panic he’d caused them – even if he wrested back enough control to communicate suitably with them he couldn’t risk either himself or his fellow escapee being thrown by the agitated beasts should he lose himself again. The thief met him halfway, the creatures Newt had set to guard him apparently having been as affected by Newt’s outburst or attack or whatever the hell it had been, as they burst from the lower levels and swarmed across the courtyard in an unmissable wave. The thief caught him by his uninjured arm and spun him back around, hurling them both around a bend and into the main building, up a flight of stairs as they watched chaos unfurl in the garden yard below.

“You alright?” the Riskian threw over his shoulder, eyes glancing over Newt’s bloody face and the bard nodded a swift affirmation despite the way each step they took only caused his head to pound more fiercely and the plug inside him to feel like it was jabbing and flaying his insides. The insidious magic substance had thankfully shrunk again after the attempts made to remove it but its seal and size still left Newt’s previously tight walls and sensitive rim feeling decidedly abused.

Newt drew together enough wherewithal to send a vague message of caution to their fellow escapees and was gratified at least a little to see the Salamanders separate away from Yan and head into the shrubbery, setting it ablaze as the Chimaera headed away from the flames and out of sight. He could only hope that the creatures managed to find safety as the thief pulled him out onto an open rooftop on one of the lower building, the terracotta-coloured tiles hot and sun-warmed under his bare feet and the light hurting his eyes after so long in the dark. At least the courtyard had provided a little shade. Newt couldn’t spare much attention to appreciate the tiered levels of the city, the blur of amber and terracotta-roofed buildings standing out starkly against the varied buildings of white plaster and dark Teranine stone. Seeing it from this height and vantage point as an elevated and prosperous level of the city was quite different from the limited view that he’d had from the first room he’d been kept in Nurmengard.

Newt’s skull pounded fiercely as they halted by the lip of the roof, the older man eying the distance between the two and quickly looking back to Newt with indecision clearly lined in the small space around his eyes. They set in determination a moment later however as an arrow lodged itself in the wood of the topmost step behind them and he ducked forward, his shoulder catching Newt in the middle as he scooped up the slighter man. The bard let out an undignified squawk as Percival took a step back and then leapt forward. There was a terrifying though exhilarating rush of air and a blind blur of open space and tiles before they landed hard and skin-scrapingly on the next rooftop and the thief rolled Newt roughly away from him, the two gasping and struggling to stand with their respective injuries. The plug inside of Newt shifted blindingly, his bitten arm stung and the chain connecting his piercings swung wildly, tugging agonisingly on the piercings. Pickett clung desperately to the hold he had on Newt’s loose locks, wedged in by the bard’s ear and chirruping angrily at the rough ride his home tree was providing him. Newt offered two fingers softly up to him in apology and a weak smile that was ruined somewhat by the blood marring his face.

He very nearly heaved at the sickening amount of pain flooding his body but scrambled up after the limping thief, nonetheless. His companion was worse off than him, what with the damaged state of his ribs and leg. He seemed to be doing better than Newt would’ve thought possible as his uninjured leg appeared extraordinarily strong, pulling him ever forward, the tight material of his dark, ripped trousers clinging flatteringly to each curve of muscle and sinew. His bare back boasted a similarly lithe and muscular shape, the dip of his waist glimmering in the blazing sun just enough to off-set the masculinity of the thief so that he retained some odd sense of…otherness. Newt found himself blushing at his rampant thoughts and furiously turned his gaze down to watch his own feet as they leapt over another gap, thankfully smaller this time and he managed it without needing to be lugged over his companion’s shoulder like a sack of grain, much to his relief. He stumbled a little upon landing however as he heard a soft voice behind him that left his blood as ice despite the sweat clinging to his straining form.

“Now where do you think you’re going, little Ræv?” 

Newt hissed as he skidded to a stop, bare feet catching a little on the rough surface as he turned to see Grindelwald standing on a slightly elevated roof from where they stood, the mage bracketed on either side by dormer windows and silhouetted by the blazing sun. Once again resplendent in a surely uncomfortably warm black cloak that billowed out as it snapped in the summer breeze, a slim silver rapier gleaming in a leather sheath at his hip. His expression was not as furious or amused as Newt might’ve expected – instead, he looked something akin to impressed, perhaps a touch chagrined too, as if disappointed in Newt’s behaviour and the bard set his jaw in rebellion of the expectation. The implication that he should in any way adhere to the bastard’s desires or anticipations. He felt the thief’s hand on his shoulder again, pulling him back slowly to rest him at the older man’s side, a little behind as if under his protection. Grindelwald tutted at the action, mismatched, eclipsed eyes flickering between them with clear dissatisfaction and Newt could not control the visible shudder that wracked him at the gaze, feeling the ghost of the man’s cock choking him and his body pressed tight against him, crushing and _too much_.

Grindelwald stepped out lightly into the air, walking as if on invisible steps down to the roof the two former prisoners occupied, speaking in an admonishing tone he did so, eyes regarding Newt in a similarly reproving manner. “Now that was not a rhetorical question, sweetness, I am truly curious as to where you plan on going. Away with this nefarious stranger who doesn’t even give you the courtesy of his name? Or perhaps back to the companions who will not remember you? Well?”

Newt swallowed but did not rise to the bait, simply glaring at the mage as he stepped down onto the solid ground of the roof, the thief’s grip on his shoulder guiding Newt back, steady and reassuringly confident. Grindelwald’s eyes flicked over to the thief and narrowed, “And you dear Graverobber, did you honestly believe that you could steal from me again without consequence?” 

“I don’t see that I’m stealing anything of yours this time around,” the thief intoned testily and Newt felt the man’s grip on his shoulder loosen a bit, as if to emphasize his perception that Newt was not property. It was a relief, a welcome thought, that he wasn’t entirely being treated as a damsel to be stolen from Grindelwald out of spite in the eyes of his reticent new companion. 

“You know that I’ll find you again, don’t you? Whether or not you use any of your petty little parlour tricks to hide.”

The words rang eerily true in Newt’s ears and he cast his gaze about the rooftop and his surroundings for anything that might assist him and the thief in getting out of here before Grindelwald’s deceptively amiable demeanour inevitably ran out. 

“Maybe you will, but you aren’t going to get your hands on the hallow you let me steal right from under your nose,” came the firm reply and Grindelwald looked decidedly unimpressed and even a little irritated by the threat, taking several decisive steps forward. It was at that moment that Newt shook himself back into action, the beginnings of an idea jolting his aching cranium back into something like life.

Newt startled both himself and the Riskian man by diving forward and scooping up the miraculously still-lit torch that had landed with them on the rooftop, swinging it up before them. Newt shot the thief a meaningful look and breathed a little easier as the other caught on fast and lifted a hand, sending the flame twining and raging through the air like a swarm of serpents. In the spur of the moment, Newt grasped back control of his connection to the creatures nearby and grinned as he found that the beasts he sought were as close as he’d hoped. The Salamanders crowded up the wall of the building they stood upon and beelined straight toward the intense heat and spreading flames of the fire’s bright glow, basking in the blaze and fuelling it into a torrent that swiftly began to consume the rooftop.

Newt pulled his companion back, hurrying them to the next drop, gritting his teeth against the pain flowing through him and resisting the urge to turn back as he heard the infuriated and possibly pained yells. He couldn’t afford to stop and feel guilt for the man when they needed to escape. Thankfully, the next ledge led down, a balcony a short drop below that they managed relatively easily and with minimal strain upon both their injured states. They dropped onto an empty side street set some way off from a busy, sheltered bizarre, the immediate area blessedly much quieter than the visible thoroughfare but were brought up short when a thoroughly singed and smoke-blackened Grindelwald appeared in front of them out of thin air in the same way he had when he initially caught Newt. Some nearby bystanders let out exclamations of shock at the sudden appearance of three men in such bizarre circumstances and fortunately had the sense to flee the scene as Grindelwald stalked forward, sword drawn this time. Newt didn’t have to be much of a magic expert to see that the blue flame that engulfed the blade was of preternatural origin and even if it wasn’t, all they had between the two of them was a now-extinguished torch. All the same, the thief brought it up to block the blow that came his way, swinging it up and out to deflect the razor-sharp blade away from where it had been about to spear his gut.

The two men fought with clear skill, fluid movements that were well practised and equally fuelled by experience and instinct, but it was obvious that the Riskian’s injuries and distinct weaponry disadvantage were crippling whatever skill he might have. His arms began to shake under the blows aimed his way, his dodges becoming slower and clumsier as Grindelwald forced him back.

Newt eyed his surroundings once more, casting about for inspiration, seeing nothing much but a now empty alleyway, littered with useless dusty detritus and the odd scattering of tiny pebbles. As much as throwing the gravel at Grindelwald might feel a touch satisfying, he doubted it would do much more than simply irritate him a little and Newt found himself panicking more, uselessness flooding him as he stood by doing _nothing_. He could sense the Salamanders still but only in a distant, disjointed sort of fashion, his connection to them too frayed to call the beasts away from their fiery feast to come to his aid once more. Besides, he wasn’t foolish enough to suppose that Grindelwald would spare the creatures for a second time should Newt manage to successfully call upon them again.

There was no one else nearby who could or would help, not that Newt could reach with the pounding, disjointed feeling of his head nor the city setting. He chalked the fierce ache in his skull down to malnutrition and overexertion under immense stress after prolonged incarceration, though he knew that whatever had caused his nose and eyes to bleed along with the pressure in his skull was worryingly unrelated. There were plenty of people around, sure, but it was obvious as ever that no human was going to be any good except the one that was currently barely holding his own against a more abled-bodied opponent. A human who Newt didn’t even really know but had fought alarmingly hard to keep him safe thus far.

Teeth set in determination against the pain and fear flooding him, Newt threw himself forward, taking both men by surprise as the lean bard barrelled into Grindelwald, hissing and feeling tears sting his eyes as the loose chain dangling from his chest caught in the elaborate hilt of Grindelwald’s sword. Agony tore through him as the chain linking his piercings ripped free from his pierced ear but Newt couldn’t help the thrill of satisfaction that went through him as he saw that not only had he startled the mage but he had caused him to let go of his blade. The thief took full advantage of it and wrested the sword from out of the chain tangle and swung it at the mage who only saved himself from being skewered by disappearing into thin air and reappearing a few feet away. Grindelwald panted, pale face sweaty and white-blonde hair in disarray as he swept it aside and glared at the thief who now held his weapon in a stronger grip, brown eyes twinkling mischievously as he glanced between his opponent and the bleeding bard. Newt barely felt the pain rushing his body for the adrenalin surging and tentatively brushed his torn ear with stinging fingertips, wincing and drawing his hand away quickly. Bloody hell if that hadn’t hurt. 

“That was _not_ very good behaviour, Newton,” Grindelwald growled, eyes roving over Newt’s injured form with unnerving intensity, “I had thought you were beginning to discover your place. That it had occurred to you that consorting with a common criminal was beneath you. Your upbringing alone would earn you more than being on the run with the likes of him,” a jerk of his chin toward the thief whose eyes had set hard and his fighting stance had not relaxed an inch.

The implications of Grindelwald’s words nagged at him then; the potential that Grindelwald was aware of more about his upbringing that Newt had told him, Newt’s eyes going that bit wider as he regarded the older man, edging back slightly towards the street as he did so. Not with any haste but a definite movement away from him. “I don’t care a jot what you think, I’m not going back.”

Grindelwald’s expression morphed in a rather more contrite one that fooled precisely no one present, “I will admit that perhaps I dealt with you a tad more harshly than I intended, but I am willing to be more lenient should you return without a fuss.” His gaze flickered downward meaningfully before trying to meet the bard’s gaze, “I might even be so inclined as to remove the adornments and gifts that you seem so...averse to.”

Newt’s muscles bunched and twitched with the minor temptation to go forward, to have the mage release him from the constant companion of agony and the massively uncomfortable stretch of the thing inside of him. To be rid of the jewellery that pierced his flesh and claimed him like some sort of toy, a possession only for the amusement of the sadistic and deluded. But he knew that whatever the man before him promised, he wasn’t going to treat him like a person, he wasn’t going to let him free or do as he pleased – he only wanted to use him no matter what incentives he might spin out to tempt Newt in.

“I want nothing to do with you and I never will,” he stated firmly, reaching forward to grip his Riskant companion’s arm, attempting to indicate without so many words that they should go, that they should leave before Grindelwald tried to utilize one of the numerous magical skills he apparently had at his disposal. Yes, his thief may have the upper hand for the moment by holding the enchanted weapon, but Newt knew by now not to underestimate Grindelwald, which was a large part if why the bard was avoiding that treacherous gaze even more than he usually would.

“I’m sure in time you’ll come to feel differently,” Grindelwald almost coaxed, head angling in such a way that it became almost painfully obvious that he was trying to make direct eye contact with Newt. The thought was laughable and he did indeed release a derisive breath of bitter mirth as he deliberately shunned the gaze again by fixing his sea-stained eyes just past Grindelwald’s shoulder. 

“I thought you had realised by now that you can’t really get into my head that way?”

He saw a muscle jump in Grindelwald’s jaw and the thief stepped forward, eyes also not meeting Grindelwald’s but a taunting grin clear in the deep mahogany eyes visible behind his mask. “You’re really that peeved that you can’t get your way as easily as you usually do? Now I thought the infamous Gellert Grindelwald had more to him than _simple parlour tricks_.” 

Newt saw the glint of silver at Grindelwald’s hip and realised just what the mage was about to do a moment before he did it, diving forward to intercept the knife that had been sent flying toward the spymaster’s heart. He felt the thin blade pierce him and struggled valiantly to keep upright even as a sharp cry was ripped from him with the force of the pain that tore the breath from his suddenly empty lungs.

Well, _bugger_ … He’d only meant to pull the thief out of the way, not to take the dagger himself.

Newt staggered back against the solid bared chest of the man he’d saved, feeling the blade shift sickeningly where it was lodged just below his left pectoral, ironically enough just under where the piercing still stung and bled. He felt an intense heat, something scrabbling, reeling even, within his chest and jerked in response, fingers reaching up to touch disbelievingly at the blade protruding from him. The metal was oddly hot to the touch.

“Ræv, I-…”

Newt shuddered, eyes taking in the equally shocked eclipse-eyes staring out of a pale moon face, startlingly red lips forming the words before Newt’s legs shuttered out from under him and the two objects currently penetrating him drew a low moan from his throat, sounding pitifully more like a whimper than the reassurance it was meant to be in return to the louder call of concern he heard ringing in his oddly muffled ears.

“Newt! Damnit, come on, Newt?”

He felt a rough-skinned hand tap furiously at his cheek before a low curse hissed closer as Newt’s world shifted, everything flaring blindingly anew with agony of too many kinds for him to handle when he felt his body slump over something warm and firm. A bare torso, he thought, if the suddenly burning sensation of skin to skin contact was an accurate gauge in the fire-threaded grey that that had consumed him. His eyelids fluttered, the surroundings blurring past, loud sounds – shouts, bangs, roars, a clash of wood on metal and the pounding of feet jolting him too violently for Newt to even consider staying in the realms of consciousness to endure. 

**A/N – Heyo Chaps, I’m SO sorry about the long wait but I’ve been suffering serious writer’s block recently because of my impending doom via results but that’s all out of the way now. Hope this chapter and a possibly quicker next update makes up for it? Pretty please? I’ll hand out virtual knives and cookies if that helps? Aaaaaanyways...**


	10. Beware within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for kinda body horror in this chapter

Caring for extensive wounds was not usually within a spymaster’s repertoire – _inflicting_ them, certainly, but not so much the aftermath. He’d even had the occasion to poison a few targets under the pretence of care – a decidedly nasty business he detested and would rather never do again... but when it came to staunching blood flow, deciding whether removing a sharp metal object would only make matters worse and stitching the damn thing up, Percival was rather out of his league. Thankfully, disappearing and finding safehouses _was_ in his skillset, even in a city he generally avoided. Percival utilised his gift combined with the utterly unique illusionary and stealth enhancing aspects of the mask to become almost invisible as he lugged the unconscious and heavily injured body of his lanky new companion through the streets of Teranine.

He’d made sure to slash a blow from the enchanted sword across Grindelwald’s arm, which had unfortunately risen in defence of the mage’s gut -- Percival’s intended target. Percival had then slammed the pommel into Grindelwald’s head instead, with enough force to stun the man and escape. One of the next things he'd made sure to do had been to acquire some clothes with which to hide both his own half-clothed state and his scantily clad, bleeding burden. No doubt Grindelwald would inform the city guard and his personal agents of the duo's escape. Percival had had more than enough practice with hiding himself, and he made his stealthy way through side-alleys and outlets of the undercity until he reached the relative safety of a barn on the outskirts of the city. It was far enough away from Nurmengard and the capital’s heart that the guard would have to spread themselves thin searching but also in enough of a nice little cluster of busy establishments that it would be easier to make noise without it being overly suspicious. Cities were nice that way sometimes.

He hadn’t used it in many years so the musty, dusty interior was a relatively new experience but more importantly, the space was blissfully untouched – it stank of disuse which likely meant that it had yet to be disturbed by anyone other than himself or the contact he’d asked to second-hand purchase it. He had a comprehensive collection of such places scattered across the majority of the continent and as convenient as it seemed, it often ended up resulting in him finding down-on-their-lucks squatting in his safehouses, despite the protections that had been put in place upon each location. This particular barn proved safe enough however as he lay down his companion upon the gritty floor, propping him up on some sacks of dried and magically preserved foods that hopefully would still be edible before he half-collapsed beside Newt.

The younger man needed care, as quickly and thoroughly as he could give it, but Percival’s stabbed leg and fractured ribs had been protesting every movement he'd made for the past few hours and as high as his fortitude was -- and even with the aid of his gift to abate the pain a little -- exhaustion and agony finally got the better of him. He lay panting and gasping in grit-teeth breaths for several long minutes before he rummaged in the sack beside him, retrieving several strips of jerky and cramming them into his mouth, chewing furiously and downing them with some water from a stolen waterskin as he dusted his hands off and went to tend to the still unconscious Newt.

The bard looked half-dead: infinitely pale from blood loss, except for where his freckled skin was stained and scarred with the evidence of his injuries, both old and new. Obviously, the blade still embedded in his chest was the priority, but Percival also had the bite marks and the living magic within the lad to contend with. The malicious and utterly cruel thing intended to keep him on edge and under Grindelwald’s thumb, it's humming, teasing magic clearly causing Newt severe discomfort and humiliation on the sadistic whims of one egomaniacal prick. Percival drew back the overlarge cloak he’d snagged off a clothesline to cover himself and settled it snuggly around the bard’s shoulders, frowning as he noticed that the lad was nowhere near as cold as he thought he might be after losing so much blood. He wasn’t exactly feverish but neither was he as cold as his corpse-like pallor suggested.

“Newt?” he tried, gently nudging the lad’s uninjured arm.

The young man simply flopped slightly to the side, pallid face tilting into the futile shelter of his messy copper hair.

Gritting his teeth against the uncharacteristic anxiety gnawing at his gut, Percival looked closer at the place where Grindelwald’s blade had pierced the bard’s flesh, noting with some surprise that there was less blood spilling from it than he had expected from Newt’s complexion. He decided to make the inevitable leap however and gripped the handle of the knife, taking in a careful breath and drawing a clean-seeming shirt he’d snagged forward with his spare hand, holding it ready to staunch the blood flow. He tugged. There was a thoroughly unpleasant slipping _squelch_ as the sharp metal came out of the place where it had been thrust, the bard arching and keening with it, trying to curl unconsciously around the wound with a low moan...gravitating around the place where the dagger had struck instead of burying itself in Percival.

He still could not quite believe that the skinny, reckless lad had darted so quickly in front of the blow, that he had taken the flung weapon _for_ Percival and predicted it in time to do so. The thief found himself regretting the taunts he’d flung at Grindelwald even if the fury on his face had been somewhat worth it – the potential sacrifice of an innocent man's life was not worth any petty jabs he’d gotten in. It wasn’t fair that Newt had paid the price for Percival’s words. Especially not after he had been the one to get them out. 

The spymaster pressed the relatively clean material to Newt’s wound, aiming to soak up the vital fluid that leaked out but found himself swearing and half jumping back in shock when he felt something pressing back at him from under the cloth. Sharp metal limbs shredded the shirt and as Percival watched from his place sprawled out on the floor several feet away from the unconscious bard, a tiny silver spider reared its proportionately minuscule legs in the air at him as if in castigation. He watched, open-mouthed, more than a little horrified, as the spider blinked eight tiny, jewel-like eyes at him before dipping back down into the torn flesh.

Percival sucked in a much-needed calming breath before edging himself slowly back over to the bard, closer and closer, until he could better see the narrow wound piercing pale skin. He stared wide-eyed and appalled as the legs of the thing reappeared and it began to produce what seemed to be thin silver thread, coils and coils of the stuff appearing and gradually beginning to resurface the wound. It started lower, piercing like a seamstress’ needle did with cloth and finding where flesh and muscle were cloven apart and progressively drawing each fibre, tissue, nerve and inch of skin together, reunited with impossibly strong and elastic seeming silk-metal-thread. 

Percival wasn’t sure whether he should be doing something. Perhaps trying to stop it if it was a working of Grindelwald’s magic. Maybe help it if it was another friend of the creature-friendly lad. Or perhaps run screaming to the nearest madhouse complaining of visions of contradictorily helpful and creepy-as-all-hells spider appearing from a young man’s chest and giving him a look that strongly resembled one his sister used to give him when he was being unforgivably slow and somewhat rude.

The wound now seemed to be stitched shut, a latticework of impressively tightly-meshed and intricate webbing creating a new surface for the place that has so recently been bloody and torn flesh. The spider sat upon its creation, staring at Percival with iridescent, eerie jewel-toned eyes – some of lightest blue and others a jade green. The contact remained for several tense moments before the silver spider went scuttling up Newt’s pale, gently moving chest and crawled up to nudge at the bard's cheek with two front legs, almost in an inquisitive manner. It succeeded in rousing him where Percival had failed and the spymaster couldn’t be sure if it was more to do with the apparent healing Newt had just received or if it was a creature’s touch that Newt simply reacted better to than that of a man. He wouldn’t be particularly surprised should the latter be true, especially after what Newt had experienced so recently from the touch of another man.

“Ah...uh-...w-what?” Newt’s cracked, hazy voice had Percival moving closer, crouching by the younger man’s side and his hand hovering over Newt’s arm for only a moment before he gently shook the lad's shoulder and called to him.

“Newt? Newt? Can you hear me?”

“...any reason I shouldn’t be able to? I thought I was stabbed in the chest, not the ear.”

Percival gave a slightly sour look at the younger man who had yet to open his eyes and was already back to his somewhat snarky self - if a self was something that could be established after a scant few days knowing the man. He paused for a moment to collect himself, watching the bard’s wavering eyelids as they struggled to lift before he spoke again, “You seemed to have developed a new...I hesitate to call whatever this is a friend?”

Newt’s eyelids lifted a little more, pupils dilated and hazy-looking as they reached Percival, blinking dazedly up at him before sliding down to a half cross-eyed expression as he saw the silver spider. Newt’s expression sobered rapidly and he jerked a bit, muscles bunching and tightening, visibly trying to sit up straighter. “Ah, yes, that,” he croaked.

“Yes, _that,_ ” Percival intoned, slightly irritated but also somewhat amazed that the lad seemed so lucid. Surely the care for such a severe wound could not be this simple. In Percival’s experience, any healing magic often came with a price and most certainly _not_ with magical flesh-burrowing, healer spiders.

“Care to explain why a spider just crawled out of your chest and apparently saved your life?”

Newt’s eyes opened a little wider and this time Percival caught the meaning in them and helped to sit Newt up and move onto his side where he was propped on the lumpy supply sacks. It likely wasn’t the most hygienic or comfortable place to rest and heal after being mistreated, chewed upon and stabbed, but it seemed a damn sight better than being locked back in those cells or wherever else Grindelwald could think to throw Newt if he were to recapture him. An all too likely possibility it seemed if this spider was something to do with Grindelwald and given that it was the mage’s damn symbol and epithet, it seemed unfortunately likely.

Newt seemed more comfortable on his side despite his injuries and Percival’s thoughts flicked back to the plug stretching his hole and how much harm it had likely caused given all the running, jumping and movement he'd done. Not to mention the expansion that had occurred when they had tried to get it out.

That was one problem he doubted some magical little spider ex-machina was going to solve for him. Or rather, for Newt. It was odd how quickly their interests had aligned. Usually, at this point he would leave a tag-along to fend for themselves once they were in a safe location and he could rely upon them not to die in the near future due to his actions...indirectly or otherwise. With Newt, he felt the need, the desire, to stay. To keep this odd, sweet young man out of the hands of someone as deranged and obsessive as Grindelwald and his cohorts and to somewhere safe.

So he watched as Newt’s brow rumpled, eyes blinking slowly before he answered Percival’s question, seeming to mull the words over a thick tongue as he said them, reminding Percival that the lad was likely just as thirsty as he was. Percival scooped the waterskin up off the ground and passed it over to Newt who took it with a grateful nod, swigging down a healthy amount before speaking with more success this time around.

“She...she _says_ that she was protecting her uh...mother.”

“You mean there might be more of that thing?” Percival asked, aghast as he eyed the tiny silver spider that chittered unnervingly at him and Newt only laughed, a strained, cracking sound that was bordering upon a weary sigh. Of course he would laugh. Percival could feel a headache forming and began to rub his temples with irritable fingers, kneading fiercely and scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.

“No more, I don’t think, at least not yet. She thinks of _me_ as her mother as I’m apparently the one that brought her to life,” Newt paused, taking in Percival’s expectant eyes before sighing wearily and continuing, the spider scuttling down to rest in his hand, playing upon bloodied, pale fingertips with that disconcerting agility that all arachnids seemed to possess. “She is-was- a piercing-" he gestured, albeit awkwardly, toward his pierced nipple and Percival’s jaw creaked as his teeth gritted tight. “I don’t know how I brought her to life or why she decided to make a home in…well, in me, I guess, but she _did_ save me. She doesn’t want her...host...damaged. I think I’m what’s keeping her alive and I’m happy to do so,” he chuckled nervously, more than a little baffled, “I don’t think I have much choice in the matter really, even if I wasn’t happy about it. Besides...I’d probably be dead if it weren’t for her by now so...here we are.”

Big, kohl-rimmed eyes looked up at Percival beseechingly, almost expectantly, and Percival sighed before replying, “I would say I’m surprised but I think by this point I’m too damn tired. Maybe I’ll get round to it later after a good nap but for now, I’m just gonna ask that it-.. _she_ -” he corrected himself when he saw Newt open his mouth to do so and barrelled bullishly onward “-stay off and more importantly _out_ of me. If you’re happy with a weird little piercing-spider-hell-beast-thing crawling all over you then that’s your business but I don’t want it deciding to relocate.”

Newt looked very much like he wanted to laugh, a gleam of that golden mischievousness shining in his sea-stained eyes, but he pressed his chapped, reddened lips together firmly and mercifully restrained himself which Percival was unfairly grateful for in that moment.

Instead, the lad responded evenly, “I don’t think she could even if she wanted to.”

The spider chirruped again as if it agreed, and Newt translated as much.

Percival nodded, trying to pretend that the whole concept wasn’t creeping him out more than he would ever admit aloud, and instead asked, “How are you feeling?”

Newt half-shrugged, wincing and glancing down at the bite marks on his arm as he did so, “Not dead? Sore and bloody exhausted.” He looked around, “Where are we?”

“Safehouse on the outskirts of the city - should be safe to rest in for now but I’d rather get moving once we're both somewhat more mobile.”

Newt drew the dusty grey cloak closer around himself, his shivering a barely perceptible tremor under the covering. He looked up at Percival again with uncertain, hesitant eyes before he said, “Thank you…for getting me here…for getting me…out of _there_.”

Percival shrugged, wishing he could smile at the other man in a way he’d see past the crinkling of his eyes, “Least I could do after you took a knife for my smartass comments.”

Newt flushed then and Percival eyed him curiously, bemused as the bard spoke in an abashed tone, “I-uh...I was actually just trying to pull you out of the way but I suppose my timing was a tad off…”

Percival stared at him for several moments, almost expecting a punchline for some bizarre reason he couldn’t quite fathom before he let out a bark of genuine laughter instead. “Well maybe you have some sense of self-preservation left in you after all then, I was starting to worry.”

“You sound like my brother,” Newt half-grumbled.

“You have a brother?” Percival asked, surprised before venturing, “And he hasn’t noticed you’re missing?” 

“Yeah, absolute arse that he is, but we don’t see much of each other.”

“Ah, right, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Newt replied easily before he shifted again and looked at Percival in an oddly intense manner, “While we’re discussing personal matters, this may come a tad late but, well, what should I call you?”

Percival was taken aback, more than he perhaps should’ve been, realising belatedly that the bard had no name nor face to put to someone he was all but relying on and subsequently felt a tendril of guilt constrict within him. The younger man’s faith in him astounded him all the more in light of how mistreated he’d been by someone he met in similar circumstances to how he had Percival. Newt was holding himself together well under the extreme circumstances, worryingly so. He’d have to keep an eye on him.

His hesitation seemed to dissuade Newt, however, though he took it in his stride as he said, “It’s alright, after all, you wouldn’t be much of a spy if you told me who you were. I suppose I could call you something else, then? Not Graverobber or Thief. I get the feeling you don’t like either of those even if they are technically what you are.” He hummed quietly, thoughtful, before he brightened and offered that mischievous smirk again that alit his eyes and seemed to flow energy anew through his battered state, “How about…Reginald? Or Brian? Seamus? Maugrim? Perhaps Colin? No, you don’t look much like a Colin unless-”

“Percival,” the Riskian cut across firmly, smiling despite himself as he raised his hands in mock surrender to the bard’s imaginative tirade of nonsensical names. It was a risk telling Newt his real name, one he hadn’t taken in a very long time but still, he didn’t feel the same tight knot of apprehension that he had the last time he’d done it. No, instead it felt like there had been a release of pressure between them somehow – an unburdening -- and the sunshine bright smile that lit Newt’s bloodied, pale, strained face very much felt worth it. He smiled invisibly back. Somehow, it felt like that smile wasn’t quite as invisible with Newt being the one witnessing it. As if the lad were searching for it as he was the one drawing it out.

“Percival,” Newt repeated the name once and it sounded like he was savouring it on his abused tongue but then he shook himself, blinking twice rapidly before he added: “Right, but I probably shouldn’t call you that in public, I suppose...”

“Rather you didn’t, no, but if things go right, that won’t be an issue from here on in,”

“Still, I feel I should call you something,” Newt mused, almost lightly but with a weight to his gaze that belied his tone entirely, he looked up after a moment and hesitantly suggested “How about Graves? Could that work?”

Percival let out a huff of breath, opening his mouth, on the verge of snapping something flippant and teasing at him before letting the words die on his lips and slink back within. Instead, he sighed and said, “A good a name as any.” Newt offered him a parchment-thin smile and Percival averted his dark eyes back down to observe his own hands, taking refuge in the shelter of his mask to hide a small smile.

Percival paused and looked up after a while as a thought occurred to him and he voiced it with uncharacteristic care, “I can keep us hidden until we’re out of the city but if you wish to part ways then, where would you want to go, given the choice? Would you like help getting there?"

“Oh, I hadn’t given it much thought,” Newt looked slightly crestfallen – almost as if Percival’s words had been a harsh reminder of sorts. “I would say my brother given the circumstances, but I have a bad feeling that Grindelwald already knows about him...”

“And your friends won’t remember you,” Percival finished, realising just how alone the bard seemed to be. “Are you sure there’s no one else you could turn to for help? A friend, perhaps?”

Newt thought for a while, shifting awkwardly on his insufficient resting place before he spoke slowly, clearly hesitant, “Uh, I do have a...friend, a mentor of sorts, I suppose. I haven’t seen him in years, but from what he told me, he spends most of his time in a town along the Boulant border. Creanor, I think it’s called.”

“And do you trust him?” Percival hedged.

“More so than anyone else I know,” Newt replied before a shadow crossed his face, “Among those few who still remember me.” He chuckled dryly, another harsh sound “Or at least I think he will. It’s been a long time since he last visited.”

“Right,” the spymaster murmured. Escorting the bard somewhere he might be safe was more or less a duty now. The idea of leaving him to fend for himself and to evade Grindelwald seemed thoroughly despicable and unfair after the younger man had aided in his escape. The idea of leaving him to fend for himself and to evade Grindelwald seemed thoroughly despicable and unfair after the younger man had aided in his escape. Whilst his confidence dictated to himself that he would have eventually thought of something to escape, his sense of realism kindly informed him that that would have likely occurred after a great deal more suffering than he had already endured. If at all.

“How’re your ribs?” came the sudden question, and Percival was abruptly faced with the challenge of fending off the other’s fingers probing the bruised skin around his tender ribs, evidently trying to seek out the damage. He caught Newt’s wrist gently, mindful of the abraded skin, and settled the younger man’s hand down onto the sack Newt rested upon.

“They’re not any the better for running through the city with your lanky ass in tow, but there isn’t much to do except perhaps wrapping them -- and I don’t think you’re in any state to be helping with that.”

Percival spoke with blunt honesty, hedging on the teasing but firm in his resolve and Newt clearly picked up on it even if he fidgeted a little restlessly where he was sprawled – his most grievous injury was healed for now but he was by no means in any better physical state than Percival was. He seemed to realise it too as he winced, falling back awkwardly onto his side, still painfully aware of the constant discomfort of the thing inside him, not to mention the strains and aches of his abuse as well as the bitten, blood-crusted marks of a beast marring his arm. 

“Just set there for a bit and I’m sure you’ll be much better once we find some way of getting that thing out of you.”

Newt’s face barely flushed this time despite the shame that drew his sea-stained eyes downward and slumped his shoulders tighter into himself. Both out of necessity and want to provide a needed distraction Percival indicated the sacks Newt rested upon, “There’s some dried and preserved food in there if you feel up to it.”

Newt looked a tad nauseous but nodded, turning away gratefully and digging around under him with renewed fervour. Percival too took the opportunity to get busy as he picked up one of the shirts he’d stolen and began shredding the off-white material into strips for makeshift bandages. He took care of his own injuries with still determination. Perhaps it was a shoddy job, but at least the strapping was as tight as he could manage... he jolted as his fingers were gently pushed aside by slender, blood-flecked ones. He watched silently as Newt readjusted the bandages, pulling them about and tighter before tying a better knot than Percival had managed, the kind that would stick well but be easy to undo if need be.

Newt did his work with lowered lashes and slightly pursed lips, the rosy hue of them becoming more vibrant against the pallor of his freckled cheeks. Percival sat back with a low sigh but it was one of minor relief as his strained breathing eased a little with the support. It was the best they could manage without magic or proper healing – Percival’s gift had unfortunately never been suited or extensive enough to include healing. 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely and Newt shrugged, his eyes drifting further down to the ragged slit in Percival’s trousers where the torn flesh bled through a copper-rust colour against pale skin. The spymaster did not attempt to resist the bard’s aid this time, instead sitting more heavily back against the wooden wall with another sigh, one hand drifting down to rest upon his strengthened leg and the other snagging another piece of dried fruit. The food was tough and somewhat sour on his tongue but it proved filling and likely enough to sustain him. He watched as Newt inspected his wounded leg, carefully cleaning it with a cloth from the shirt strip pile and the contents of the waterskin Percival had snagged along his way here. The process naturally stung like a bitch but Newt was surprisingly skilful as he cleaned and the bound the wound and when the bard caught Percival staring, he smiled faintly, tying off the last knot on the bandage. 

“I’ve had practice taking care of injured animals, just less so with myself or humans.”

Percival nodded quietly before taking up the remaining strips of cloth and giving Newt a look that told Newt in no uncertain terms that he was going to return the favour of care. He went for the bitten arm first, cleaning away the crusted blood and breathing a sigh of relief as he saw the bard had been right not to make a fuss as the indents of the lion’s head teeth were shallow. It had likely still hurt a great deal but it was by no means debilitating or life-threatening – more like the greeting that Newt had described. He wrapped it just in case of infection and to ward off the attention of strangers. The bruised wrists would not be much bother besides superficial discomfort so he let them be.

When Percival’s movements ceased, both knew what was coming next and Newt swallowed but looked at him with startling levelness. “I don’t think this is coming out without magic and I think that anything less will only end up making it worse.”

Newt seemed to gather himself a little and munched down on his own portion of dried food, sipping some of the remaining water down, eyes downcast and more than a little lost in his musings. Not so unusual for a bard, Percival supposed.

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“I have a few contacts who might be able to help but I couldn’t tell you where they were and I’m not sure if traipsing around the continent looking for them with you in this state is such a great idea.”

Newt looked up at Graves from where his calloused fingers had been tearing apart a piece of dried mango with absent hunger and he nodded, not quite understanding why the spymaster was still helping him. He’d witnessed Newt’s abuse, his humiliating weakness and even some bizarre, clearly disturbing abilities that the bard held both with creatures and apparently with creating sentient, oddly needy creatures from non-consensual piercings…and he was still here. He’d dragged Newt’s dead weight across the city, had saved him when he could have easily fled and left him to Grindelwald as a ready distraction. But he hadn’t. In fact, he was going out of his way to care for Newt, to be kind to him, and he didn’t seem to want anything in return. The very least Newt could do was to help him in his own meagre way. Even if it were by reaching out to an acquaintance that he hadn’t seen in years in the hopes that he might offer them both shelter from the wrath of the captor they’d fled. 

“I have a friend who might be able to help. He…he knows something of magic, and has some degree of the gift on his own, from what I understand,” Newt said, the feeling of queasiness growing stronger in his uneasy gut as he considered the idea of letting anyone – even a friend – know about what had been done to him. 

“Your friend in Creanor?” Graves inquired and Newt nodded, a gesture which was then mirrored by his companion before the older man added with no small amount of awkwardness lacing his dark gaze, “Do you think you can make it that far?”

“It’s only a few miles from here, perhaps a half-day’s walk. It’ll be fine,” Newt’s reassurance sounded weak even to his own ears and Graves’ distrustful stare only confirmed it. Moving as far and fast as they already had had been torture with the thing humming and unrelentingly _solid_ inside him and travelling more miles on hard road likely wasn’t going to be manageable. Not to mention how drained he felt after being stabbed and healed magically in the space of a few hours.

He honestly did not want to dwell upon how or why the silver spider that had burrowed into him had now saved him, but from the account of said spider – Nessa, he felt – she had come into being knowing only the one that brought her to life. Her mother – Newt. It was such a bizarre state of affairs, but even as he was thoroughly perplexed by it, Newt found himself feeling an odd kinship with his newest passenger. Unfortunately, Pickett did not seem to share his warm feelings, as the Bowtruckle was currently taking furious and chittering refuge by Newt’s ear whilst the newly christened Nessa made her home back near where she had emerged, hooking her slim silver legs into the loop of the piercing and hanging upside-down, commenting cheerily upon everything she could see from her perch. She had a sunny disposition, contradictory to her somewhat eerie appearance – as Newt often found with the majority of detested or feared beasts – and Nessa didn’t cease to be impressed by every mundane thing she saw in the room…or how she felt Newt’s heartrate pound a little faster whenever he looked directly into Graves’ mahogany eyes. In fact, she seemed very keen not to shut up on that particular point – curious and almost endearingly naïve on what the physical reaction meant. 

Newt wasn’t too sure himself.

He barely just knew the man’s name, somewhat under duress, and could not even see his face beyond the gleam of dark eyes and an impression of dark hair. Had barely known him for a few days…but still…he was here. And he was being so careful with Newt, not so careful as if he were going to break apart any second but the much more useful kind of care – the kind that belied coddling but was also not so simple as the necessity of mutual benefactors.

“Newt?” the thief’s voice broke him from his reverie and the bard looked up to startlingly alert eyes and a careful distancing of any contact that could have been misconstrued as suggestive even as they remained close. “Don’t suppose you’d be able to use that trick of yours on another horse, would you?”

Newt swallowed. He was feeling rather less jumbled than he had before but the ache residing in his head warned him that pushing whatever bond he had with creatures this soon after everything that had happened would be very unwise. “I might…” he hedged, “But I rather think that riding might be worse with…my…predicament.” Perhaps as a reminder, the magic inside him twitched with the clench of his body, thankfully nowhere near that special spot but still more than enough to make tingling waves of discomfort and little frazzles of pleasure run through him. Each nerve-ending within him and along his sore rim felt as if it were a hundred times more sensitive than ever before, every single shift, stretch or pulse thrumming along his senses like fire. Sparklers of sensation, hissing and dangerously beautiful within him. His skin prickled all over with it and whilst it was not easy to ignore, he knew that attempting to ride a horse would break whatever fragile control he had over it in the first place. 

“Asha’s ass, Newt, I wasn’t suggesting you ride like this,” Graves admonished, shaking his head and Newt cocked an eyebrow at him. “If we could get our hands on a cart, we could both sort out the problem of you travelling and being less conspicuous. No one is gonna look twice at a mostly empty farmer’s cart leaving the city. They’ll assume we sold our goods at the market.”

Newt stared for a few seconds but nodded nonetheless, surprised by the inventiveness of the idea, “Trouble is, where do you think you can find a cart around here without being noticed?”

“I have my ways,” Graves replied, and though Newt eyed his glamoured face dubiously, he somehow found himself trusting the man’s confidence and nodded again, settling back where he lay propped up on his side with a huff and a sigh. He was too tired and in too much prevailing disquiet to sit upright for prolonged periods, and as he had said, there was little they could do about it right now but wait. 

“I’ll try in the morning, it’s too late to head out now as the city gates will be locked. We’ll have to be quick getting out after we get a cart together. If we’re lucky, the theft won’t be noticed for a while but its best to be on the safe side.”

Newt nodded again, chin bobbing as he curled his bandaged arm around his middle, the other drifting awkwardly to clutch at the gauzy material bunched around his knee.

He could feel the mingling jolts of pleasure stirring his body more than was appropriate or convenient and if he didn’t know any better, he could swear that the thing inside him was getting thicker again, longer perhaps too. He wouldn’t put it past Grindelwald to continuing tormenting him in this way even after he had escaped – pushing Newt past his limits of humiliation as a punishment for his defiance, no doubt. Or maybe the object within him was simply doing so of its own accord, it seemed that whatever magic Grindelwald had put on him since they met – physical or otherwise -- didn’t ever seem to go quite his way. The piercing had come to life and decided to protect Newt with fierce fervour instead of acting as the adornment of possession that it had been intended as. Grindelwald’s attempts to control his mind had not taken hold as they apparently should have.

Whatever the circumstances, Newt could feel pressure of more than one kind building within him and as he did his best not to squirm at the feeling of something growing and thrusting in his sore, overused hole, it was clear that his efforts proved futile when Graves’ warm, rough hand brushed his ankle. He looked up, eyes shining faintly in barely repressed distress to see Graves watching him with no small amount of indecision traced with pity. It was the pity that burned him more than anything. Newt turned away, ducking his head into the worn sackcloth of the makeshift resting place he’d been put on, the place he hadn’t the energy to leave. He was so tired, tired of moving, of being brave, he wanted to be alone, to not have to put up the brave front and to let himself break down, at least a little... but he was sure that if he allowed that in front of this near-stranger – his mysterious, hero-complexed companion…he wouldn’t quite fit back together again. He couldn’t take that chance.

Newt’s fingers disentangled themselves from where he’d clenched them against himself, letting them roam up to fiddle through strands of messy copper hair and feel about the intricate metal of the piercing in his ear. It felt firm. He tentatively tugged at the pin in the back of it, the place where the metal hooked the cuffed dragon, the lobe pierced but the piercing stretching up and beyond to cuff the arch of his ear. He tried to pull it out, to free himself further from Grindelwald’s influences, but winced and found his frustration mounting as the jewellery did not budge. The skin around the piercing seemed healthy enough, not swollen or angry, just…fixed. Likely more of the dark mage’s magic. At least the two piercings were no longer connected, the broken chain hanging cool against the heated skin of his bare chest under the grey cloak that wrapped him.

He looked up then, eyes meeting Graves’ where the man was still watching him, though thankfully with a more dampened version of the earlier sentiment that had burned Newt so. The bard offered up a soft smile, attempting to reassure the other that he wasn’t as affected as he was by the movement and growth inside of him, by the feeling of being stretched in a way that brought up a surge of hot, shameful memories…of water slick tiles, steamy air and a syrup-sweet taste upon his lips…of another’s lips upon him, drawing him in… 

Newt shook himself resolutely back to the present with about as much success as one would expect given the circumstances and felt that his smile must’ve thinned in his absence, perhaps become more of the grimace that it was as Graves’ dark eyes were narrowed a little as he regarded the bard. Newt glanced down at himself self-consciously and shifted once more before venturing, “Don’t suppose you’ve got any clothes that’d fit me, do you?”

Graves blinked but then nodded, as if the thought had been on his mind before but had slipped in the wake of others. He rummaged through a pile nearby to where a few shredded strips of the shirt he’d used for bandages lay. It was a meagre lot but likely the best anyone could’ve managed injured, on the run with another man’s weight upon his back – Newt was honestly impressed he’d thought of it but then supposed that he must do this sort of thing often if he were truly a thief and spymaster. Graves handed him a worn cotton tunic, supple and off-white, along with a loose though slightly short looking pair of brown breeches. No smallclothes unfortunately but Newt wasn’t complaining and he took the garments gratefully, slipping off the cloak he wore and pulling on the tunic quickly before hesitating with the skirt.

He glanced up at Graves who quickly got the message and flushed very lightly around the skin of his neck which was visible, turning away to give Newt some semblance of privacy. Not that he hadn’t already seen the younger man’s bare arse, stuffed full and abused…Newt resolutely moved past the thought and set about finding the lacings at the back of the sarong’s leather waist section and working them free. He shimmied the flimsy, feminine material from his hips and very deliberately threw it as far across the room as he could manage, a blush of his own staining all available skin in a rosy glow.

Newt made a conscious decision _not_ to look down at himself but as he was forced to shift his legs and hips up to get the breeches on, he couldn’t help but manoeuvre himself awkwardly and painfully to catch a shameful look at both the red, stretched skin of his hole and the end of the solid magic nestled between his legs and also the angry, slowly stirring state of his cock. He could blame the action upon concern for his welfare but the excuse didn’t convince even himself as his sense of self-preservation was, at that time, a slow and distant thing. It was a hazy sort of arousal, the kind he often woke up to early in the mornings, the kind that prompted him to take matters into his own hands. The kind of arousal that led to him pressing and pushing fingers into his soft, tight hole and exploring all the ways it could make him feel…the kind that was now tainted by the words and thoughts of what Grindelwald had done – of what he had _seen_ and whispered so sinfully, _tauntingly_ into Newt’s ear.

But that wasn’t an option now, even if he was willing to do so in front of his new cohort and Newt couldn’t help but panic a little internally at the thought of showing what had been done to him to a friend as old as the one he was now considering. He’d always had something of an awed fondness for his mentor – more perhaps than was appropriate for a teenager to have for an older man, and it didn’t help that even in his post-pubescent years, the notion of exposing himself so to the handsome wanderer might excite him just that little bit. Maybe more than a bit. But it entirely inappropriate, of course. Mahalat help him. Why did it have to be that just at a point in his life where he was finally sorting out such matters in his head, that Grindelwald had to come along and confuse and mar it all into something he daren’t touch? 

Now suitably clothed, albeit rather ill-fittingly, Newt draped the cloak over where he’d been lying as a makeshift bed, the evening warm enough so that he did not feel too uncomfortable without it. He glanced awkwardly over at Graves and called, “You can turn around now.”

The Riskian turned and sat heavily down by the wall nearby, scooting a spare sack over and propping his feet up on it, grunting a little as his injured leg shifted but seeming as comfortable as any man could be in such a position all the same. He closed his eyes briefly, seeming tired but unwilling to settle down to sleep, and offered the younger man a mildly amused look when Newt continued to stare.

“I’m good for another few hours, you should get some sleep, bard.”

“Not sure if I can,” Newt mumbled, shifting to lay back on his side but keeping his eyes open and his head propped up on one arm. Graves snorted slightly.

“You slept just fine before.”

Newt levelled him with an unimpressed look and the spymaster raised his hands in mock surrender before crossing them back over his chest. Newt watched him for a little longer, fingers playing with a hole in the corner of the sackcloth before he asked: “So…this mask you wear…I’m guessing there’s a story behind it?”

“Yes, there is.”

Newt cocked a brow, “And I’ll bet it’s an interesting one?” 

“That it most certainly is.”

Newt found himself huffing a laugh, “And I’m guessing you’re not going to share it with me?” sensing the answer, Newt added “Come on, I’m a bard, humour me why don’t you?” 

“Nope.” Graves popped the ‘p’ with mischievous relish before heaving a sigh, “I know it must be frustrating for you to be kept in the dark like this but trust me, it’s safer for everyone involved if I don’t tell you things like this.” He became more serious, however, as he added with resolute dark eyes glimmering brightly, “I won’t lie to you though. Not unless I have to. I may be a thief but I like to think I’m honest when it counts.”

“Droch-ábhar?” Newt huffed with a laugh.

Graves nodded, “Droch-ábhar.”

“I suppose I understand,” Newt mused, “If I had to deal with someone like Grindelwald frequently, I wouldn’t be particularly forthcoming either.”

“You say that like you’re not already involved,” Graves said, eyes narrowing in Newt’s direction with apparent concern and reproach clouding them. “I’m sorry, but no matter how much you might wish otherwise, you’ve caught his attention and he doesn’t let that sort of thing go easily.”

A leaden lump seemed to form in the back of Newt’s throat, the thing inside of him thrumming with a fierce pulse almost in emphasis – a reminder of his position as the mass sent tingling waves through him, drawing the sensation in and out like the tide. Leaving fizzling vestiges of pleasure and discomfort in its wake, tracing along the shores of his strung-out senses. He swallowed thickly past the feeling, squirming a little to try to reposition himself back into some semblance of dignity or comfort but finding that for the first time, the solid weight residing within him was everywhere, each twitch and tightening of his arse forcing the thing deeper into his senses and alighting them sickeningly. His thighs rubbed together almost subconsciously, the friction created by the rough material on his rousing member delicious and painful in equal amounts. Newt took in a deep breath through his nose, pressing his lips together before he ventured, “Speaking from experience, are we?”

“Yes,” came the surprisingly ready reply – straight to the point. “Though not the same as how he treats you of course,” his eyes became almost haunted, “I rather doubt I’m to his tastes even if he knew what I looked like.” Graves spat the next words out like bad ale, “He likes them young and delicate.”

Newt shuddered, he couldn’t stop himself, and he curled into his ersatz bed a bit tighter as the sensation and the conversation converged once more, the solid tip within him striking true finally after hours of torment and he jerked forward, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. His cock twitched - the treacherous, wilful thing - and he felt a thrill of coerced lust jab shamefully through him.

“Newt?”

A hand on his arm now, burning like a brand with the way it felt so welcome but he let out a weak cry and jerked, rolling away from it and curling up on his other side, eyes pressed tightly shut and forehead crinkling as his breaths strained loud in his chest.

“I’m sorry if I-”

“Not…you…” he gritted out between breaths, firmly but with difficulty. His eyes rolled as another stab of pain-pleasure was jolted through him by the plug pressing relentlessly against that spot that made him _keen_. “Bloody hell! If you couldn’t just…move…away…ah! Please!” He wasn’t sure whom he was begging at the end – the simulated shaft inside of him or Graves. Unfortunately, neither obeyed and Graves’ hand rose to tap insistently at Newt’s cheek, hazed blue-green eyes fluttered open and taking in a resolute, stony gaze. 

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

Newt nodded distractedly and fought hard against the urge to fist himself to release some of the ache that resided in his traitorous body, to bring himself to completion in the hopes that it might make the buzzing and thrusting in his most intimate area _end_. 

“Bloody hell, bard, he’s really done a number on you. hasn’t he?”

“Not…helping…” he gritted out, sending a haphazard glare over one shoulder in Graves’ vague direction. 

“Yeah, right, sorry, I just-...what do you want me to do?”

The offer seemed genuine, and Newt considered it as best he could – what _did_ he want his companion to do? Or more specifically, what did he think it was actually a good idea to do under the circumstances? The arousal rampaging through his body and numbing his brain pushed him very strongly towards the idea of rolling over and letting the man touch him until he came all over both of them and then perhaps return the favour, but his better sense and the persistent fear informed him very strictly that that was a distinctly terrible idea. 

“Should I talk to you again?”

“Only if...you want...a foot in your face...” Newt grunted out in between breaths and Percival nearly laughed if the sound that left his mouth was any gauge but he wisely repressed it in the wake of the concern still bubbling in deep dark eyes.

“You have any better ideas?” Graves asked, rolling Newt back to face him when the bard tried to roll away again, still on his side thankfully but that ended up meaning little when the shaft inside him thrust harder, the tip penetrating deeper than it ever had before. Newt swore lowly in fractured pieces of every language he knew and even some nonsensical creature sounds as he brought his hands down to brush lightly over his stomach, wincing and eyes aghast in shock and horror when his fingertips found something solid thrusting steadily against them through the flesh of his abdomen. It was deep. Deeper than he had thought possible. Was it a trick? An illusion? Or was it just some new level of torture? Gods, it felt so _wrong._

Graves saw where his hand was and looked puzzled for a few seconds before he gently pried Newt’s fingers away and then swore considerably less quietly than Newt had.

“Fucked up bastard! That insane, possessive little shit!”

Newt would’ve replied, most likely agreed, but as it was, all that escaped his lips was a strained wheezing sound. He curled tighter than ever in on himself but quickly gasped and regretted the movement when it only made everything that much worse as the thing shifted, if possible, deeper. It had to be magic. It _had_ to be. Even more than was already being enforced upon him that was. He let out a wretched, coughing croak as Graves pulled him about, clearly unsure of how to position him without making it worse by putting too much pressure on either the locust of invasion or the place where the magic seemed to trying to push _through_.

Senseless and desperate Newt found words tumbling from him without his proper sentience or permission “Please, please, please, please just get it out!”

“Newt, I can’t, I don’t know how-” The expressive nature of Graves’ dark eyes was almost as wretched as Newt felt and it drew another half-sob from the bard as his hand twitched downward instinctively to hover a needy palm over his aching cock. The thing inside him gave a new surge of tingling sensation and the near-agony of it this time was too much, he keened, one hand scrabbling at the laces of his newly acquired trousers as the other pushed himself blindly away from Graves. He barely held enough wherewithal to turn his back on the other even as his hand slipped into his breeches and took hold of his aching, engorged length with a hiss and a sigh. 

“What’re you- ah.” Newt felt Graves’ hand on his shoulder loosen and felt a hot tendril of shame curl constrictingly in his gut but it was unfortunately not enough to counteract the other, more invasive and awful feeling already present there. At least this way he could get rid of one discomfort as they mounted on top of one another. All he felt was shame anyway, why not use it? But then he thought of how Graves had looked at him before - before the pity returned - the expression in his mahogany eyes had been one of respect, of interest that wasn’t simply of a sexual kind as it was with Grindelwald and his ilk. Newt’s hand stilled, his hips arching involuntarily one last time to try to catch that feeling again but he let out a groan as he resisted the urge and brought both arms up to hug himself even as more sobs wracked him. He couldn’t play into Grindelwald’s depraved schemes by demeaning himself further in front of his companion, to let the mage turn him into some sort of desperate and carnally driven pet. Like Sebastian and the blonde girl – people who saw what Grindelwald did as mercy rather than the exploitation it was.

As much as it pained him, he refastened his breeches with shaking hands and curled as tight as he could manage, using his shoulder to drag himself into a more upright position against the sacks, his left arm crossed over his slightly distended stomach and the other pressed across his weeping eyes.

“Gods…” he heard the curses that followed before Graves was before him, leaning down so that their faces were level even at the odd angle Newt was propped at and the spymaster made sure to meet Newt’s overflowing eyes carefully before he spoke, “Newt…do you want me to help you?”

Newt flinched slightly and Graves visibly swallowed, his throat bobbing where the blurred lines of his face beneath the mask ended and lightly work-tanned skin was exposed. The spymaster’s voice came out smooth and calming, careful in the extreme, eyes never leaving Newt’s “What do you want me to do? I won’t do anything without your express permission, Newt, I swear it.”

Newt swallowed too, stinging eyes slipping momentarily shut before he reached for Graves’ wrist, gently pressing his shaking fingers to the other man’s pulse and feeling it thrumming against him warm and soft. It wasn’t normal but was slower than his own rabbiting pulse rate. It helped to slow his own a little, as much as it could given the circumstances. “I just want to help you, I know I can’t begin to understand what you’re feeling right now but I can help you if you want that and I could leave you for a while if you want to take matters into your own hands-” they both visibly cringed at the unfortunate wording but Graves soldiered on regardless “But you shouldn’t let yourself suffer because that’s exactly what Grindelwald wants – he wants to punish you for being stronger than he thought you were. He’s being petty and vindictive because he didn’t get his way with you. You needn’t let him take away your ability to take care of basic human needs or your dignity just because _he_ dictates it.”

Graves’ eyes were sincere, warm and solid like the bark of the tree they so strongly resembled. “I know that I’m probably making this all sound like its simple but the best way to deal with this sort of thing is to do what you’re afraid of and damn the consequences if those consequences are only what others think of you.” he squeezed Newt’s arm gently “I won’t think any less of you for asking for help or privacy if you need it, Newt. No man worth his salt would.” 

He looked up into dark, stern, concerned eyes for some time, trying not to spasm around the feeling of being stretched and abused too far _, too much_ …and finally nodded almost imperceptibly, his voice a throaty murmur as he voiced his need. The man already knew of his abuse, his abject humiliation…why not let him help? By simply giving him a choice, by not trying to make Newt feel guilt over what he felt…he was already better than Grindelwald. Whether he was anything like him remained to be seen but Newt nodded again, shuddering subsiding if just a little as he moved his arms away from where they had been shielding himself and spoke. “Please, could you help me?”

Graves’ eyes widened slightly, as though he hadn’t been expecting an agreeance but he nodded in return, all the same, his hand dropping to the messily knotted laces of Newt’s breeches, eyes on his face carefully the whole time. At first, Graves did nothing but cup Newt through the rough material, a thumb stroking tenderly, almost teasingly, over the pronounced bulge and Newt let out a shuddering breath, eyes slipping momentarily closed. The Riskian struggled a bit but Graves’ dexterous fingers managed the fastenings and he helped Newt shift up just enough to lower his breeches down past his hips until they were just covering his knees downward, not a full exposure but enough to allow the Riskian access to the younger man. Newt moved to help as much as he could, gasping in the minor relief brought to him as his aching, leaking cock was once more freed to the unseasonably warm air, his cock swelling further and his reddened head peaking to touch his quivering belly. It was a freedom that he had rarely allowed himself before any of this, usually shamefully bringing himself to completion, fisting and rubbing his length as quickly and efficiently as he could within the confines of his unlaced trousers before his troupe woke up.

To have another man looking him in the eye as he exposed himself, to feel the warm, large hands that moved to cup his hips and draw him that bit closer to the other man’s steady form…it was different. But a different that felt so much more welcome than the invasive, unrelenting weight that Grindelwald had crushed him down with, both emotionally and physically. 

The first touch was met with a gasp, Newt’s eyes widening as Graves stroked a trail of sparks over sensitised skin, following the light path of hair that led from Newt’s navel downward “Is this okay or would you rather I just got to-”

“No, no, it's fine, more than fine” Newt offered a tense smile and Graves’ eyes only briefly darted downward to where his hand was touching, as if to orient himself before careful, calloused fingers stroked along the base of Newt’s shaft. Newt choked out a breath, momentarily closing his eyes before deciding that seeing Graves’ eyes was better, a way to settle and convince himself that the man touching him was someone welcome even as his jangling nerves tried to convince him otherwise.

He began with smooth, languid strokes but Newt’s panting, laboured breaths seemed to encourage Graves as his touches grew in confidence, squeezing tighter, creating a ring with three whilst his thumb explored the head. One finger teased Newt’s foreskin, rolling it back just a little until Newt hissed, the skin retracting of its own accord as his arousal reached its peak, his balls drawing up closer to his body and hips jerking forward in encouragement. His instincts seemed eager to take control from his brain, the syrup-flower-sweet smell filling his senses as the stretching and curling within him seemed to react to the near-peak, the tip of the magic withdrawing until it was roughly teasing his prostate once more. It felt _incredible_. 

There was a part of him that was telling him, warning him, that he would never usually behave like this, that he would get off being raped by sentient magic that had forced itself inside him while thrusting up into a near-stranger’s hand…but the dominant part of him didn’t really care. It felt too good. Newt gave in to his instincts then and surged forward, taking a grip of the back of Graves’ neck and pulling him forward, their lips meeting in a sloppy, violent awkward manner that produced a muffled groan from the older man before the Riskian gave in to it. The kiss was a short, messy, poorly angled thing but Newt couldn’t help but moan a little into the taste of salt, peppermint and something fiery and the way Graves’ invisible lips moulded so perfectly to his own…Graves pulled back quickly, however, pupils blown almost as wide as Newt imagined his own were and his grip on Newt going slightly slack, his thumb brushing over the head as he seemed ready to release Newt.

The bard jerked back into himself a little then, flushing high in his cheeks and lips opening to offer apologies before his brain properly caught up with it “Mahalat, bugger…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-…I just-”

“It’s alright, just caught up in the moment I’m sure.” Graves reassured him but his blown wide eyes and the slight pant to his voice said otherwise. The evident press of a growing erection pressing against Newt’s thigh told a different story to the indifference Graves was clearly trying to portray. The way his hand didn’t stop stroking even as their eyes met with intense fervour… There was a fast strum of fear that shot through Newt then but at that moment, Graves’ grip tightened, Newt’s hips thrust one last time and he tipped over the edge, his resistance fleeing as his sagged forward, face pressing into Graves’ shoulder and full-bodied shudders rippling through him. The thing inside him shrank, most definitely, he felt, in response to the easing off of his mounting arousal and he felt tears soak through Graves’ stolen dark green shirt as relief – proper relief – flooded through him. The aftershocks of his orgasm left him feeling tired and somewhat empty, most especially in contrast to how full he’s been feeling before.

Newt knew he should move, to should move away from the man he had just used essentially used as a masturbation aid and had come on, a man that had had only offered him a hand, not a literal shoulder to cry on. But Graves’ arm carefully circled him, a broad hand rubbing soothingly over his shoulder blade…he melted into the contact. He didn’t do so for long, sniffling self-consciously and peeling himself off of the no doubt disgusted spymaster, keeping his eyes averted from both the mess he’d made of himself and from the dark eyes of the man who helped him. He managed to find the voice to speak as he shuffled back, the length inside him shifting again and causing him to gasp but he muted it as he curled into himself once more. 

“I-…thank you.” The words were soft and strained but he made sure to inject as much of his genuine gratefulness and apology into them as he could. “Sorry…”

He felt a hand briefly disperse the air above his shoulder but the contact did not come, instead, Graves sighed and spoke just as softly, handing Newt the waterskin and some of the last rags which he drew back to his chest and sent the briefest of small nods back in acknowledgement and thanks. He drank more of the tepid liquid to ease the soreness of his throat. 

“It’s alright, Newt.” He said before sighing lowly, that same tremble present in his voice and newt realised for the first time what it might mean, turning half-back to Graves with another apology ready upon his lips, an offer.

“Do you-…I mean, can I…ah help you...um too…?” Graves’ looked a touch confused at first before Newt’s eyes dropped meaningfully downward and the spymaster released a weary sounding laugh.

“I don’t expect that, Newt, this was…a…friend helping out a friend.”

“But still, I could-” Newt began and Graves cut across him with a raised hand and a gentleness to his voice that had Newt listening even if his fingers twitched to return the favour, to help relieve Graves’ obvious discomfort. It only seemed fair as he had apparently been the source of it.

“No, I don’t think that’s the best idea, Newt, not for you, not now.”

Newt regarded him for moments more before nodding despondently and gathering up the energy to crawl around to the other side of the sacks and began working to wipe the mess from his chest and abdomen. The bard also wiped the crusted blood from where it had only so recently spilt from the stab wound, the strips of cloth quickly becoming soiled, useless and frayed with the ferocity with which he scrubbed them across his skin. The wound itself felt odd, the webbing he had felt stitching him together again sitting strangely within and over the previous perforation, achy and tingling with the aftermath. The areas he had cleaned bloomed pink and sore from the abuse but it still somehow felt preferable to the majority of the other sensations flowing through him.

His body felt somewhat sated even as his mind revolted at his behaviour. He felt the weight of guilt settle all the heavier within him, stronger than the sense of rejection and fear that lingered fresh and unpleasant. It was a quiet, shameful thing, but Newt respected Graves’ wishes, not wanting to push further against the barrier he’d already vaulted over with his behaviour, keeping his eyes and hands to himself and settling back against the uncomfortable shelter he had between him and a man he had yet to understand. He had complicated things in his lust-addled state and he wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed from here.

Insidious images of Grindelwald and the horrific past few days burned the backs of Newt’s eyes, his senses instinctively seeking out the creature presences nearby and smiling a private sort of smile as not only Nessa and Pickett approached him but a large ginger tabby. The cat uncurled itself from where it had been draped over a nearby roof rafter and performed a graceful leap down, padding along on silent paws before he settled upon Newt’s lap. The warm weight of purring, _simple_ company helped to calm his racing heart better than the feel of Graves’ hand upon his…something familiar and easy. A new face but a familiar feeling. The cat began to knead Newt’s leg in that borderline painfully way of digging and retracting claws and a languid stretch of furred limbs, Newt ran his fingers through the feline’s fur with a soft sigh, settling along with the creature.

The presence of a spindly green body curling up in the hollow of his throat helped the bard to further slow his breathing to a steadier rate despite the disquiet ruling within him. Newt fell asleep to the contented purring of a dull, albeit slightly haughty and superior mind resting upon him as easily as the fluffy body of the cat itself.

He heard Graves’ voice quietly fill the stagnant air with the soft sounds of the Riskian dialect shortly before exhaustion claimed him once more and he could only hope that the words would, in fact, bring him the good fortune that they wished – no matter how unlikely. “Codladh gan aon crá.”

**A/N – so…hi again? Sorry. Have stale cookies….more will likely follow.**


	11. A question of trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do people me to start tagging and outlining the smutty chapters or are you guys enjoying plot too? Or both? Or neither?  
> Let me know!

Newt awoke to the world lurching violently around him and he lurched along with it, twisting to the side and expelling the contents of his sore stomach over the side of what he belatedly realised was a wooden cart. He wasn’t aware of much for a few minutes of violent heaving before the cart slowed to a stop and he heard the thud of boots on compacted dirt. Then there was a warm, rough hand on his shoulder. Newt flinched back on instinct, scuttling across the bed of the cart before his sun-smarting eyes focussed properly and he saw the bizarrely familiar countenance of blurred skin around the elaborate metal carvings of a mask framing mahogany eyes.

“You alright there?”

Newt nodded, breathing in bitter-tasting air tainted by the bile in his mouth but feeling a soothing quality to it as well as he smelled the aromas of sun-baked mud, horse and the smell of pine, the cackling of a nearby brook. They were on the road again; somewhere he felt was home more than anywhere else--but he also felt rather disconcerted, because he didn’t remember getting there. He watched as Graves hurried a short distance off the path, dunked a waterskin into the shallow stream and then brought it back to Newt brim-full with cool, clear water.

Newt drank gratefully, soothing his parched throat and washing some of the bile taste from his mouth. He took it steadily but still ended up finishing the whole thing before attempting to speak again. “Where are we?” he asked, getting a sense of deja vu from the last time he’d awoken in unfamiliar surroundings with the familiarly blurred face hovering over him. 

“Only a little ways down the road from the city, haven’t been travelling long,” Graves replied readily and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck in a manner that was almost sheepish. “Sorry ’bout moving you unawares, I did try to wake you but you didn’t seem all that keen on it, so I thought I’d let you sleep a bit longer.”

Newt flushed but nodded. Despite the sickness and aches, he did feel a bit better than before; clearer perhaps even if his sleep had been less than restful for his dogged mind.

“Thanks,” he murmured, rubbing at his aching joints as he moved over toward the chestnut mare that was leading the cart. Newt rubbed her nose affectionately as she turned back, whinnying quietly at him in inquiry and he smiled reassuringly at her. He looked back to Graves with a thin smile as the older man refilled the waterskin and walked rather stiffly back over to the cart, one leg seeming to power the other along behind it. “I see you managed to get a horse without my help. Good choice, too. She’s got a wonderful temperament. Steady, friendly, very pretty,” he laughed as the mare threw her head, understanding the compliment and flicking her mane as if to emphasize his point. Graves chuckled too, eying them both oddly as he explained. 

“She found me actually, wandered right up in the market, no idea where she came from but I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth,” the words were deadpanned but the glimmer in Graves’ eye and the slight wink he sent Newt had the bard grinning, though that expression sobered some as Graves’ eyes did, “I’m guessing it was your…Gift that attracted her, but I was kinda impressed you did it whilst unconscious. She seemed very…protective very quickly.”

Newt shrugged, “I don’t know what to call it really, used to just be a knack but, well, recently, I’ve been given a fair few reasons to reassess that.”

“I’ll bet,” Graves huffed, going back to the cart seat and urging the horse onward, Newt shuffling further up the cart until his legs dangled over the high-set, open edge but not quite feeling brave enough to sit beside the spymaster at the driver’s seat. Instead, the bard focussed upon communicating with his newest companion – Liza, apparently – and quickly discovered that she was, in fact, a rarely-used noble’s horse from an outer city mansion who had been brought to the market to be sold as cheap meat cuts despite her physical strength. He offered her solace and told her in no uncertain terms that she was still as beautiful and strong as she had been when the nobles bought her, and that their decision to be rid of her was simply due to their ignorance. She rewarded his reassurances by picking the steadiest route over the paths they travelled to lessen his discomfort, and with such care that Graves soon glanced back at Newt in question and released the reins at a nod from the younger man. 

“Newt?”

The man in question looked up from where he’d been examining Liza's swishing tail and wondering whether he could braid it without bothering the horse too much or risk being covered in horse muck.

“Hmm?”

Graves did not turn around and Newt found it somewhat easier to talk to the back of the other’s head rather than a mostly blurred-blank face. He was even more glad of it as the other spoke: “I’m going to ask you something. You don’t have to answer, but I feel like I should say something nonetheless.”

Graves’ tone was careful and Newt gave another assenting hum which resulted in a sigh before the Riskian asked, “Do you...want to talk about what happened? With Grindelwald?”

Newt’s eyes slid shut, his breathing coming in deeply as he forced himself to remain calm, to keep the memories and sensations brimming within him exactly where they were – safely locked away where they could do little harm as long as they stayed there.

“No, no thank you.”

“I just think-" Graves began, but Newt was quick to cut him off, voice harsh and slightly strained.

“No, you said I didn’t have to talk about it and I _don’t_ _want_ to.”

He heard another sigh and saw Graves' shoulders slump marginally.

“Fine, it’s your choice, but I think it might help to talk about it with someone...eventually,” a pause and he glanced back at Newt with conflicted brown eyes, “if not with me – which I fully understand – then perhaps with your friend, even your brother if you think that might be...easier. I mean, I don’t know what sort of relationship you two have but-"

“Alright,” Newt cut in, though not necessarily harshly, “I-...thank you, I get it.”

A terse nod from Graves, “Okay, alright, good then.”

A tense silence soon eased into one of two taciturn travellers and Newt went back to idly watching his surroundings, his mind not on much but purposefully hedging that way in preference to letting himself linger on Graves’ words.

“So…this friend of yours?” Graves’ voice again and Newt’s eyes slipped closed against the warm sunlight streaming through the treetops above them, letting the orange glow bathe his face and humming softly, a wandering tune. He missed his lute, lamented having left it behind but then again, he had had plenty of distractions at the time. He was just glad that he'd brought Pickett along with him. The little green figure nestled in his ratty shirt collar, playing with the loose threads and chirping occasionally in a melancholic sort of way. Newt felt that Pickett missed his lute too.

“You don’t talk much for a bard, you know,” the words sounded almost grudging.

“And you talk a lot for a spy,” Newt half-griped without opening his eyes.

“Not usually.”

Newt opened one eye to glare half-heartedly at the spymaster only to see the man’s brown eyes almost twinkling back at him in that way that implied he was smiling. He looked away quickly, the events of the previous night and his shame compelling it as he curled back onto one side, his insides still aching and eyes feeling strangely hot and tight.

After some time, however, he drew up the resigned inclination to respond to his companion’s earlier question, “You wanted to know something about my friend?”

“Yeah,” Graves replied, sounding surprised. “Well, I want to know what sort of welcome we might expect?”

“I’m not sure, as I said before, he-...it’s been a long time. He’s a good man, a bit odd but...wise, I suppose would be the word for it.”

“But will he be willing and able to help us?” Graves paused. “My Gift isn’t enough - isn’t of the right skill set - to help you, but are you so sure that his will be?”

“I don’t know, it’s not like this sort of thing has ever come up before,” Newt replied, a little testily, looking down at his own wilted form and then pressing his eyes shut tight as he sank further down onto the cart, curled on his side on the bed of it. Long, pale fingers tugged the edges of the grey cloak he wore tighter around him despite the unseasonable warmth. 

He heard a sigh, “Well, we'll be there soon enough all the same. Maybe a few hours now,” a pause. “Even if he can’t help you, I do know some people around the continent who might be able to. If your friend could let you stay with him, I could contact them without you...straining yourself.”

Newt pondered this, “I’d appreciate that.” He looked back over his shoulder at Graves’ dark-haired head and voiced something he’d been wondering for some time, “Why are you helping me?”

“Do you want me to stop?” came the almost defensive response and Newt levered himself up a bit again to look more directly at the resolute figure driving the cart…or rather pretending to. Liza had things well in hoof as she navigated the twining road and each pothole and pebble that came her way. Graves seemed to be just watching the road as it came.

“No, I appreciate it, I really do, but, well…” he swallowed, thinking of Grindelwald’s initial attempts at kind words, soft gestures and enticing promises, “I haven’t had much experience lately of people doing things for me out of the goodness of their hearts.”

Graves clearly picked up on the meaning and his shoulders slumped a bit, posture loosening even as his face remained on the road, and Newt sensed an acquiescence of sorts. “Most would tell you that there’s no honour amongst thieves and for the most part, they’d be right, but I used to be more than that. I’m not saying I haven’t lied, cheated, stolen, assassinated or sabotaged – it’s what I am, what I _do_ – but I like to think that I do it with a code. I don’t cheat those in true need of help and I don’t turn my back on people who help me. _You_ helped me, Newt, and I wasn’t just going to leave you to fend for yourself in the spider’s nest. Not after you got us both out of there.” An exhalation that sounded rushed, like an admittance, and Graves turned his head finally to look at Newt, seeming surprised to notice the bard’s eyes on him and his eyes smiled once more, “You saved my life...or at the very least no small amount of pain.”

He cleared his throat and quickly turned back to the road as they turned a corner into a more shaded forest track, the five mile-marker for Creanor old and weathered at the corner. “Besides, no one deserves what I saw him do. Least of all you.”

Newt was rendered mute for minutes more before he dared venture a response, somewhat humbled by the man’s words and mulling over what they could mean for him later down the line. “I suppose that makes sense, just-...I-…I’m sorry about what happened…last night, I mean and-”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Graves cut in mercifully, abating the flush rising in Newt’s cheeks before it boiled his complexion ruddy. “I’m no expert, but I could pretty much _smell_ the dark magic oozing from that thing he put in you and I don’t think it’s any wonder that you needed help after everything he put you through either.” The firm rebuke seemed to bolster something between them in a way Newt couldn’t quite understand but he breathed a bit easier as Graves glanced back at him with a tilt of his head and another flash of warm eyes.

“Still…I’m sorry I put you in that position…I don’t have much experience with, well, this sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing? Dark magic? With being tortured?”

“Well, I meant um…being with another person, uh like…that, but yes, those things too,” Newt hastened past his stumbled, mumbled words, glad that Graves was once again staring resolutely ahead and that he wasn’t laughing or glaring at him yet.

“Newt, I don’t really think you should be worrying about that sort of thing yet. For one thing, you’ve got much bigger problems to deal with, and besides…you seem like a good lad, they’ll be plenty of time to ‘be with another person’ later on in your life if that’s what you want.”

Newt nodded, understanding the logic but also feeling that familiar niggling doubt eating away at him – that he was just too odd for people to get along with him in that way. That the very things that supposedly made him unique might only serve to make him end up alone…or hounded by lunatics such as Grindelwald. He enjoyed the companionship and the easy friendship of the creatures he encountered and the comparatively more complicated ones he shared with Jacob and Tina, but he had always admired that human ability to grow close physically to another. And, like any human, he had certain needs that didn’t feel quite satisfied with his own hand. But all of that seemed pretty distant to him now, something vague and horrifying and shrouded in a thick layer of mire and decay that he should not yet risk wiping away. Not now.

“Hey, Newt, you still with me?” Newt jerked upright and winced as the thing inside him shifted once again, stretching his sore rim as he looked up at Graves, belatedly realising that he’d been drifting off again, more tired than he had quite comprehended. He saw an open stretch of coastal road ahead of him, the sea sparkling and glistening a deep bruise blue and a parched stretch of yellowing grass leading down the steep incline towards the township of Creanor. It was a smaller coastal settlement, made up of wooden thatched houses and more of the Teranine red-tiled roofs on the wealthier buildings, centred around a white stone hall with a roof of the same.

The place that caught Newt’s eye, however, was the white stone tower with the ebony-tiled roof that stood at the border of the forest and cliff, half-built into the rockface and decidedly an outlier in the quaint scenery. It was dotted with arched windows and what appeared to be an observatory doming the sea-facing section of the roof. He couldn’t help but wonder who would live in a place so...standoffish, but there was a part of him that felt that he might know the answer to that already.

“Where do we go from here?” Graves asked, tugging lightly on the reins and causing Liza to look back at Newt for confirmation, swishing her tail irritably at Graves and flicking him right in his masked face.

“I’m not exactly sure, I haven’t visited and he never described his home much.”

“Right...any chance we might find out from asking around?” Graves asked, urging Liza onward again and having enough warning this time to duck the tail that flicked at him and Newt had to smother a smile before he answered.

“Perhaps, he’s a bit of a wanderer so it’s likely that someone would know him or would have seen him in the town.”

“Right, we'll ride to the edge of town and you stay with the cart while I ask around.”

Newt arched an eyebrow as Graves looked back to him, “And do you know who or what you’re looking for?”

Graves glanced back at him as they began to descend the valley into the town, “No, but a _description_ might help with that.”

Newt fixed his eyes on the ground blurring beneath them, “I should come with you; I know whom we're looking for and I would rather...would rather not split up...just in case.” He didn’t want to voice his fear, to voice the pathetic worry that the thin veneer of calm and safety he felt would break like a cobweb should Graves abandon him. It was stupid, unrealistic to expect such a thing but he felt vulnerable right now. He didn’t want to risk breaking down.

Thankfully, mercifully, Graves did not challenge him on it and instead nodded, easing Liza to a stop just outside the first town marker, sliding down to the ground in a swift movement and then holding out a hand to help Newt down, who took it without even really thinking and then flinched back into himself the moment he was securely on the ground. His legs were a bit shaky but he stretched them out some more before following, albeit stiffly and uncomfortably, after Graves' marginally limping gait.

People glanced their way, at the tall, lanky boy struggling along behind the blank-faced warrior, the sword Graves had stolen fastened securely at his belt and his dark hood drawn up – perhaps to distract from the mask’s confusing blur of emptiness but if anything, it might well be drawing _more_ attention. Newt did not voice his concerns however as he kept close and silent to Graves' heels, his own cloak lacking a good to cover his pale, drawn face as they approached the market built by the hall.

It was a small, quiet affair with perhaps six stalls, each rickety and wooden and shaded by roughly woven blankets and manned by tanned, weathered-faced individuals who eyed them keenly and attempted to wave them over to purchase goods. Newt’s mouth watered and his stomach rumbled as the smells of fresh meat pies and overripe fruit wafted his way, mixed with the less appetising odours of sour ale and raw fish. It was rather overwhelming and bright after the darkness of the cell, the barn and then the shade and shelter of his eyelids on the ride hence.

“Hail friend,” Graves called genially, his back to Newt as he stepped over to the pie stall, the sandy-haired man tending it looking up and smiling in return at the friendly greeting, eyes flickering between the two men briefly before settling upon Graves.

“Hail, what can I get for you, ser?”

“Information, if you have it,” Graves replied easily, pressing his hand casually onto the countertop and the sandy-haired man's brows rose but he nodded all the same.

“Depends what you’re asking really, doesn’t it?” his tone did not carry the suspicion it could have implied.

“We’re looking for someone,” Graves began, glancing back to Newt who blinked but stepped forward and cringed a little as the man's eyes fixed upon him, frowning faintly at the piercing that adorned his ear and peaked out through his coppery hair.

But Newt soon firmed his resolve and regarded the other levelly. “Tall man, a wanderer, greying auburn hair, blue eyes...odd dresser.”

“And you think he lives round here?” Newt nodded in response to the man's question and the stall-owner sighed, rubbing a hand over his ruddy face, “Well, can’t say I know anyone by that description, closest I could reckon to that description is my ma. Beard and all!” He laughed good-naturedly and Newt offered a weak smile in return before the man added: “I can ask around if you’re planning on staying a few days?”

Newt opened his mouth to assent but Graves clapped a hand on his shoulder and guided him carefully away, offering parting words to the stallholder, “’Fraid not, just passing through, thanks for the help though, friend.”

“Not gonna buy a pie?” the man called after them.

The tilt of Graves’ hood indicated that he glanced sideways at Newt, sighing before turning back and asking, “How much?”

“Two bits each, four and I’ll throw in a wineskin.”

Graves rummaged in his cloak for a few moments before sighing irritably and lowering his head, “We don’t have any coin on us, sorry to waste your time.”

Newt heard genuine dejection in Graves’ tone then, as if he were sad to have failed in the one menial aspect of keeping them both alive when he had already done so much. Newt cast about his person, patting down the stolen clothes before grinning as he remembered the broken chain that had connected the two unsolicited piercings. He stepped back from the central market into the shade of a building and raised a hand tentatively, feeling around the broken end, judging the length that might be useful and muttering softly to Pickett. “Hey, Pick, wouldn’t mind breaking this off for me, would you?” a raspberry was blown at him from his shoulder before he sighed and added, “I'd be happy to find you some greenery and woodlice to eat if you do this for me.”

Pickett made a disgruntled sort of chirrup before agreeing and crawling under his collar, picking up the chain and beginning to work the fine hook that attached it to the piercing on Newt’s chest. The sensation felt odd; it tickled and buzzed in a distracting way as the piercing in his nipple was accidentally tugged by the tiny creature. The little metal spider surprised him by adding her pincers and spindly legs to the job and it quickly came free, Pickett skittering up back into Newt’s hair and away from the spider’s reclaimed perch on the piercing. Newt grabbed the chain in triumph, pulling it from under his shirt and trying to ignore the tingling sensations flooding through him as he held the expensive-looking silver chain up to Graves. “Don't suppose you could value this? My best guess would be around twenty silver?” 

“Newt, this could easily be worth forty, likely more if we don’t get swindled.” Graves said, looking at him levelly for the first time since they entered the town and Newt gasped as he properly registered the face on the man. He said _on_ because it didn’t feel like the face fit Graves at all. As Newt looked closer, he realised that his eyes were different, a cool blue that unnerved Newt as he could see the colour but also see _through them_ to the mahogany core beneath. The face he wore was plain; tanned and lined, it fit in well with those that surrounded them, framed by thick mousey hair and a light beard disguising the shape of his features to some extent. But again, it didn’t seem to set quite right over him, like a shimmer or a heat haze. Looking at it too closely made Newt feel rather queasy. 

Graves must’ve caught his disbelieving, shocked stare as an eyebrow arched before something clicked in his gaze and he stepped closer, muttering quietly to Newt, “Part of the mask's power. I can hold another’s face but only for a short amount of time, a day or so at most,” he pasted a grin on the face that somehow felt more real than the features it fell upon, “Wouldn’t get very far with no face now, would I?”

“Why haven’t you-? Before, I mean?” Newt stumbled over his question and Graves regarded him for a few moments before he answered.

“I suppose I would rather you saw nothing than saw a lie...after what you've...been through,” he explained himself a bit sheepishly and Newt did not know how to respond; he ducked his head and regarded the stolen, battered, buckled boots that he didn’t remember putting on. Graves must’ve put them on him. Another thing he owed to the man. Another thing he did with seemingly no agenda. Another kindness that Newt felt...unworthy of. Not out of any sense of inferiority to Graves necessarily, more a feeling that he was...working up to being worth much at all, really. He felt empty in a way that felt as though something had been drained from him and that it would take some time before it replenished itself, just so long as the leaks were properly sealed. He just wasn’t sure how to do that just yet.

Newt felt Graves' hand on his arm and the bard swiftly stepped back, feeling unnaturally hot under many gazes and the blazing sun even with the cool coastal breeze. Newt moved to the shade of a tree at the edge of a nearby house and rested his back against the solid trunk, taking strength from the steady nature of the thing. He took in a few deep breaths, letting the sun filter through his half-lidded eyes. Flickers of sensation danced along his tingling nerve-endings, the feel of the chain curled tight in his clenched fist and the bark of his support falling away from him as the feelings of vines slithering below his clothes, searching his skin and mapping out what they found. He shuddered with the force of his breaths, hands clenching desperately at the rough texture in an attempt to ground himself and he opened his eyes, fixing upon the wide empty blue ahead of him, past the red-topped rooftops and into the sea and sky. The Mediterranean aesthetic did not help as much as he had hoped, however, the heat and the smell of leaves and water reminding him too much of the bathhouse and the humiliations he’d been subjected to there.

The bard threw himself away from the tree, feeling the ghosts of green tendrils ripped away from him with the movement and he gasped, looking up in a scattered manner. He nearly collided with Graves as the man stepped forward, concern clear in his stolen, _wrong_ eyes. In the face that wasn’t fixed. He stepped back from the spymaster again and asked in a hoarse, hushed tone, “Why doesn’t it fit?”

“What?” Graves asked, nonplussed, and Newt waved at his face in a muted gesture, aware he was likely attracting unwanted attention but unable to completely suppress the bubbling unease within himself.

“Your face, that face you’re wearing – isn’t yours, and it looks…wrong.”

“Newt, what are you talking about?” Graves demanded, looking around at the people who were passing by and not paying any attention to either escapee – it was bizarre. The only person paying them any mind was the stall-holder they’d been talking to, whose eyes seemed keenly interested in the silver chain fisted in Newt’s trembling hand. The Riskian looked back to Newt and gently took his arm, guiding him off down the side of one building before releasing him carefully the second they were further out of sight.

Newt took in a few careful breaths, his eyes averted from Graves’ strange, off face and explained his discomfort as best he could, “I don’t know what it is, it’s like I can see the face that the mask is giving you but I can also see what’s beneath it at the same time…is it like that all the time? How do people handle it? Is that the real reason you didn’t do it before?” 

“No, Newt, no, I-…everyone else just sees whatever I want them to see,” Graves sounded genuinely perplexed and Newt couldn’t help but believe him even if he couldn’t understand the reasoning behind the difference that he was seeing to what Graves said others saw. “What do you normally see when you look at me?”

“Just your eyes,” Newt said, focussing on calming himself after the irrational bout of panic, the reaction that seemed so spontaneous and unsettled him so much that he temporarily lost his apparently tenuous grip on reality. When Graves hesitated, Newt added hastily, “Brown - dark, with dark circles below them.”

“Right…I don’t know exactly how that’s possible but for now, I’m just going to suggest that you…don’t look at me? Do whatever helps but try not to draw too much attention, it should be working on everyone else, seems to be, anyways. Once we’re somewhere more private, I’ll let down the glamor, but until then, it has to stay up.”

Newt nodded, sucking in deep breaths and rubbing at his arms in agitation, wincing as he inhaled waves of foreign scent, both the scents of the road but more strongly of that sickly-sweet sap and a hint of Nightvine roses. He gagged slightly in the back of his throat, wiping a shaking hand over his mouth before venturing a look to Graves’ dark-cloaked shoulder, firmly avoiding his face and eyes as he did with Grindelwald. The lack of clarity and the upsetting heat haze of the illusion was enough of a deterrent, even as he wanted to seek out his companion’s stare for surety as he had done so much recently.

“Sorry, I don’t-…it just-”

Graves cut him off with a wave of his hand and led them back out into the light as he quietly chastised, “Don’t apologise, I can understand why this must be difficult for you and it won’t be for long, I promise. We’ll find your friend and you will be with someone you trust, someone familiar. I’m sure that will help even if he can’t in the way we hope.”

Newt nodded even though the older man was not looking at him, staring blearily at the back of the other man’s hooded head, the material mercifully blank. The bard paused as they stepped out into the sunshine, letting the light soak into his skin and breathing in the sea-salt-smell and the scents of the market gladly once more. He pressed the silver chain into Graves’ palm as he followed two steps behind, withdrawing his hand quickly before the temptation to linger caught him unawares. It was a silent gesture of thanks, of trust – not payment exactly – but an implication between them that Newt trusted Graves not to simply take the valuable item and leave him. Graves’ hood dipped a tad as he regarded the chain for a mere moment before continuing to a stall on the other side of the market, one tucked in on the opposite side of the town hall that held a multitude of odds and bobs including jewellery, knickknacks, clothes and cutlery. Newt stayed back this time, watching without listening as Graves haggled with the woman at the stall, talking for several minutes before he handed her the chain and took a small purse full of coins in return along with two shirts, some breeches, a cloak, a small tub of something and a metal-tipped item wrapped in cloth.

The spymaster was careful to hand Newt a share of the purchases without angling his face to be visible and Newt sent him a brief, appreciative smile as he hugged the items to his chest – one of the shirts, the breeches and the cloth-wrapped object which he went to uncover only to be stopped by Graves’ quiet tone, “Not here.”

The bard assented just as quietly despite his curiosity and followed Graves back out of the market toward the place where they had left Liza with the cart, Newt smiling as he saw that the mare had remained and that no one had tried to steal or harm her in their absence. She’d even found a small tuft of yellowing grass to munch on nearby and led the cart along accordingly. Newt waited until Graves had stowed the goods into the back of the cart before asking, “What did she say?”

“It seems that your friend is less of a wanderer than you thought – he lives in that great big damn tower on the edge of town,” Graves said, his tone tight, and Newt frowned.

“Are you sure this is who we’re looking for?”

“She called him a crackpot hedgewizard who dresses like some sort of flouncy lordling,” Graves stated flatly.

“Ah,” said Newt. “That might well be him then.” 

Graves sighed, one hand coming up to rub at his face even as he was turned away from Newt, “I could be wrong but that doesn’t exactly sound like the description of someone who’s going to be very helpful – magic or no.”

“Look, I know this sounds-”

“Dubious?” Graves supplied and Newt ignored him as he continued,

“- _odd_ , but he was a good man when I knew him and I doubt that’s changed since I saw him last.”

“Alright. It’s up to you,” Graves' tone very much implied his scepticism on the matter.

Newt tried a brittle smile, “Hey, he still isn’t in the top list of dubiously sane people I know! ‘Crackpot hedgewizard’ is probably still better than sadistic egomaniac or grumpy, faceless known-criminal.”

It attested perhaps to how much willpower Graves possessed that he did not deign to respond to the weak deflection and merely jabbed his thumb at the back of the cart and intoned, “Get on it, bard, before I show you just how grumpy us ‘known-criminals' can be.”

Newt would’ve taken the threat more seriously had there not been an obvious tenor to Graves’ tone that suggested humour even as his face was hidden. Newt manoeuvred himself stiffly up onto the cart, resting gratefully on his side once more and letting out a slow breath. The torment of his insides was still present, but now it was more of a stubborn, dull ache that occasionally jabbed with brighter pain in comparison to the extreme swelling and discomfort from before. The absurdity of the mechanics of the whole situation were not lost on Newt – he knew that having his arse plugged up for long periods with no reprieve and the depths to which it had sunk before were most certainly not safe nor natural. He could only suppose that his earlier vomiting session when he awoke was his body’s and perhaps the magic's way of compromising for the need to expel what he had consumed since the plug’s inception. The finer details of it all eluded Newt and he honestly wasn’t sure if he wanted to know any of it – he simply knew that getting the thing _out_ as soon as possible would be best. He didn’t want to find out the effects the magic could have on him should the torment be stretched out any longer – if he could even survive such a thing. He felt weak as it was, shaky and constantly on edge in a way past simple exhaustion or paranoia – no matter how well-founded it might be. He just wanted all reminders of Grindelwald and his cruelty removed from him. He wanted to move on.

Well, lying on a cart bed and making his way gradually up a steep hill seemed as good a way to move as any, he thought dryly, wincing as the vehicle jarred over another bump in the path and Graves' hood twitched about again as he glanced back at the bard.

“Shouldn’t be long now.”

Newt remembered the wrapped item that Graves had given him as he lay there, rolling over and picking the thing up, feeling the weight of the bulkier end but overall, the item being reasonably well-balanced. He pulled back the rough cloth and his sea-stained eyes widened as they took in the short blade, the ridge of it running thick and clean throughout, the grip wrapped in worn black leather whilst the pommel was roughly carved into the head of what might have been an animal. The age of the blade and no doubt use had worn the features nearly smooth but as Newt tipped the blade and its fine details caught the sunlight, he could’ve sworn that the ridges formed the face and beak of a bird, the sharp curve at the end likely adding extra use to the tool.

He couldn’t help but feel touched that Graves had thought to give him something like this – to give him a way to defend himself that did not require him endangering any creatures that were unfortunate enough to be nearby. Something small and easy to carry, something that – like his knack – didn’t always have to be used for violence. Something that could be used to create and maintain as well as attack. There had been many more weapons on the stall that Graves could’ve given him had he simply wished for backup on their journey – swords, staves and cudgels Newt had seen hanging there – but instead, he had given Newt a tool. As a servant in the Lestrange household and someone who spent a great deal of time in the woods and mountains, he had developed limited though reliable skills in the fields of whittling, repairing and making items of use. He tucked the knife back into its cloth sheath and into the inner pocket sewn into the lining of the cloak he wore. Newt lay back onto his side, watching the bobbing head of the horse that drove them but felt his eyes often wander to the sun-softened haze of skin at the edge of Graves hood as the man stared ahead. 

It wasn’t an easy journey despite its shortness but eventually, they made it to the base of the tower, halting the cart and horse by a copse of sun-drenched trees as the area closer to the entrance looked too small and unsteady for the rickety vehicle. Graves dropped to the ground and came around the side as before, both to help Newt up and to collect the few items they had bought. Newt stood, craning his neck to look up in interest and traces of awe at the tall structure, taking in the details that had eluded him from a distance and throughout the curvature and obscurity of the path upwards. The lower windows that trenched the base of the tower showed a quaint view of stone set sinks, plain wooden cupboards, tables, chairs and other such furnishings, gleaming clean and scrubbed even under the littering of numerous random-seeming items. The middle level of windows was comprised of stained coloured glass and seemed to shimmer in the sunlight in a way that prevented one from looking through as with the lower tiers.

The exposed rafters visible just below the hat of the ebony-roofed tower had a number of Fwoopers, gulls and Amber-Jays perched around the structure in clear nests situated away from the pale cliff-face itself, which looked to be on the verge of crumbling into the hillside below. Newt smiled, sending his mind tentatively out to the birds, feeling no small amount of relief as his stinging senses were balmed by the simple, calm natures of each – the surprising cohabitation of differing species. One of the older chicks, a somewhat gangly limbed, fluff-feathered Amber-Jay, flew down to him, the bird’s mother cawing at him reproachfully but too preoccupied with the younger chits to do much about it. She seemed to deem Newt a worthy companion however once she sent a warning flash of an image of her claws shredding vulnerable skin. Newt took the warning soberly, knowing she wasn’t joking, and carefully greeted the teen as he landed atop Newt’s shoulder. The bird’s soft fuzzed copper-toned face nuzzled briefly into the back of his hair, almost blending in before he nipped Newt’s ear and let out a caw that seemed to be allowing Newt to continue about his business. He gave Newt the distinct impression that he was being used as an excursion into teenage rebellion and that he wasn’t being given much choice in the matter. Bloody presumptuous bird, Newt smiled to himself, feeling glad of the extra company.

“So, uh, how do you want to do this?” Newt glanced over from his new passenger to the side of Graves’ hooded face as the spymaster looked up at the tower too, hood ducking as he turned to the door, a sturdy wooden affair with a metal frame, engraved with Sigils and other shapes that were more difficult to discern and hurt to look at for too long, though not in the same way that Graves’ glamored face did. 

“I suppose we could just try knocking,” Newt said, stepping forward to the doorstep and nodding toward the gargoyle-faced brass knocker that gleamed despite the sun not quite catching it.

Graves held up his hand in front of the knocker as Newt reached for it, however, halting the bard as the spymaster warned: “It’s charmed, warded it feels like. I don’t think it’s anything too dangerous but…be careful.”

Newt nodded and took a tentative hold of the knocker, rapping it twice against the wood before swiftly withdrawing his hand and stepping back. Nothing seemed to happen at first but then there was a cold twanging sound that rent the air and a shudder seemed to ripple up the building like a slender tree in the wind. Another chime sounded and then the door swung open, Newt glanced over to Graves and then stepped carefully over the threshold, his steps growing bolder as nothing untoward immediately happened. The first room to enter was the kitchen he’d seen through the ground-level windows. Its white painted walls were accented by the rust-brown-red feature wall in which was set a deep fireplace, a cauldron hanging over a blue flame and exuding the scents of the sea, salt and thyme amongst other less identifiable scents.

“Hello?” Newt called, stepping further in and feeling Graves close behind him, only a step or two inside but not letting Newt go too far ahead. There was a thump and what sounded like a muffled curse from upstairs; the spiral, wrought-iron bannister took up a majority of the space to the left of the entryway. There was a clatter of feet, hard-heeled shoes on wood as a swirl of deep blue, star-dotted robes swept toward them, a flash of auburn hair and a lightly tanned, lined face and glimmering azure blue eyes telling Newt that they were exactly where they needed to be. He grinned sheepishly, wearily at his former mentor as the older man righted his open robe over the white shirt and bottle-green breeches he wore, high-heeled tan leather boots scraping to a neat stop that belied his somewhat dishevelled appearance. It was a familiar look on the man – the way he always seemed in a hurry yet precisely where and when he wanted to be.

“I’m sorry to intrude like this but we’re in rather dire need of help,” Newt cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling Graves step closer behind him and their host’s eyes fixing on the spymaster over the bard’s shoulder, “Oh, this is-…uh, Mister Graves, he…helped me get here. If it’s an inconvenience, we can leave, but-”

“No, no, it’s quite alright, Newt. You’re always welcome on my doorstep and you most certainly seem like you are in need of assistance,” he gave Newt a familiarly kind smile. “I can only feel but obliged to help my favourite member of the Lestrange household.”

Newt looked away, “Not so much a member anymore, I’m afraid, but anything you could do would still be appreciated.”

Neat brows rose and a weathered hand gestured toward the stairs, indicating for Newt and Graves to follow him as he began the ascent again, the duo following behind him in varying states of apprehension and dubiousness. “

Well, I feel that such a tale deserves refreshment. You both look famished and I happen to have just put on a pot of tea. I might have some biscuits too if either of you are amenable?”

Newt nodded gratefully even as his stomach turned rebelliously at the thought of more sweetness or the prospect of food that he would likely just throw up again, “Just tea, thank you, would be lovely.”

They entered the highest level sooner than Newt had expected, the bard having been solely focussing on putting one foot in front of the other as he climbed, trying desperately to ignore the shifting weight within him. Graves must’ve noticed his distress as the moment they reached the top, he pulled out the comfiest looking chair, a huge winged thing covered in squashed cushions and brushed over the dust covering it before setting a hand on Newt’s shoulder and pressing him gently but firmly down into it. Newt didn’t argue but he sent a brief smile over at Graves as he went to stand by the open window, gazing out as an old blue gaze flickered between the two men curiously, though their host said nothing of it. Instead, he merely poured three cups of tea from a large copper kettle and proffered two of them to the guests. Newt took his cup and blew on it before sipping gratefully, finding it soothed his throat better than the water before had, its herbal scent helping to clear the taste of bile from his mouth. He set it down rather hastily, however, as the nausea rose in him again, the similarity of the warm drink to the drugged tea he’d been fed in Nurmengard looming over him. Nevertheless, he appreciated the strong scent of both the tea and the room, which helped to detract just a little from the smell of Grindelwald and the sweetness that clung to him like the stench of sickness. 

The wizard pulled a somewhat sympathetic face, “Sorry if it's not quite to your liking, I’ve been experiencing some rather terrible headaches lately so I may have been a little scattered with my brewing.”

“I feel like I made the right choice in abstaining, then,” came Graves' oddly cool comment from his spot by the window and his tone was such that Newt risked looking over at the older man briefly, seeing a furrowing of dark brows beneath the unnatural facade that filmed them.

Their host seemed to pick up on Graves' sour demeanour and stepped over to the man, offering a hand which Graves only took when the bearded man spoke: “Albus Dumbledore, pleasure to meet you, Mister Graves. I must thank you for acting as Newt's guide.”

Graves shook Dumbledore’s hand firmly but released it swiftly and gestured toward the ring on his index finger, “I find it kinda strange that the ‘friend’ Newt's been harping on about is a Maor.”

“A what, sorry?” Newt interjected, confused, his grasp of the Riskian language shaky. Albus was quick in his usual helpful manner to explain.

“A warden or magistrate,” he glanced to Graves as if for confirmation of the translation and the man nodded, hood dipping.

“His ring, Newt, his ring bears the mark of a noble family – a man of court. And if my memory serves, it's one of the Varin council.”

Newt turned to Albus with raised brows and the elder sighed and elaborated, “I was part of the council, yes, in an ambassadorial role, but not for a long time. It was why visited the Lestranges as often as I did. They were a key part of the relationships developing on the continent – particularly between Amus-Kai and Varin.”

“Oh, right,” Newt said, unsure of the larger implications in the way Theseus might have been, and of how to follow up the information he'd just been given. Graves, however, did.

“You’re a Maor – a profession you _cannot_ retire from - and yet you give off the impression to someone _who trusts_ _you_ , that you’re nothing but a wandering hedgewizard?”

Dumbledore looked rather pained but answered with his customary blunt yet somehow kind honesty- even to someone who was so untrusting of him, “When I first met Newt he was but a boy and it hardly seemed necessary at the time to inform him of my role or the complexities of continental politics,” he looked to Newt, blue eyes earnest and open, “You seemed so taken with the idea of me being a wandering soul, free to live and do as I wished, and I saw no reason to disabuse you of the idyllic notion of something you so clearly aspired to.”

“I-...I understand why you would think that way, and I appreciate it. I suppose it has been some years since we last saw one another. I’m barely more well versed in such things now, but I can still understand why you wouldn’t want to complicate matters,” Newt tilted his head and winced again as he shifted in his chair, “but you could have told me I had the Gift. I imagine it would have been fairly obvious to you.”

Dumbledore looked sad then, a hollow, deflated look enveloping his eyes and slumping his shoulders slightly below their ostentatious wrapping. “I did try to tell you, in a way, but it seemed a cruel thing indeed to place upon a child. Though judging from what has happened since - the fire...I can’t really say that my intentions made much of a difference.”

Newt stiffened at the mention of the fire, eyes resolutely set ahead at the shelf of well-kept tomes behind the bearded man’s head. He could feel Graves’s gaze on him, intense and curious. The bard did not venture an explanation and thankfully, neither did Albus – the man evidently sensing the danger, the residual anger and grief attached to the memories.

Instead, Albus thankfully changed the topic, though, unfortunately, not to a much happier one despite its relevance, “So you came to me for help? I’m imagining it wasn’t just for tea and a seat, though I’m happy to provide lodging should you need that too. What is it that has driven you to my door?”

Newt did not hesitate for long before he answered with blunt honesty, “Grindelwald.”

“Ah,” said Albus, looking between the two men and then back to the bard before he sat primly, settling into the winged armchair opposite Newt and regarding him levelly, fingers steepled neatly in his lap. “I feel this requires rather more explanation. Do sit down, Mister Graves, you look near-dead on your feet.”

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Percival followed the Maor’s suggestion but not at the indicated seat and instead upon the bay window seat, the place cushioned though undoubtedly not as comfortable as the armchair would have been. Newt gave him an odd look but Percival did not look his way, aware of how the glamor unsettled the lad and not willing to upset whatever balance the bard had found within himself. Something about this Dumbledore, however, irked him more than whatever horrors Newt was repressing and as a more tangible, immediate potential threat, it was the Maor that Percival decided to direct his unease toward. He had known the man all of five minutes and had already uncovered a small goldmine of lies and secrets that the older man had been keeping from Newt. Not only that, but Percival couldn’t help but bear the stall-woman’s words in mind. She had cautioned him, told him that people only went to the hedgewizard in his lonely tower for the direst of reasons – cordial and hospitable or not, Percival wasn’t willing to ignore the warning.

He knew from long experience that old wives’ tales and superstitions were rarely the full truth. Although the details may have been warped by time, misinformation and fear, urban legends and suspicions existed for a reason – humans were fickle things but also had a good sense of the predators amongst them, even if they didn’t almost quite realise it themselves. It could be the vaguest sense of unease, the awkward pause before a word or the hackles of a dog being raised, even the slightly too-long stare…but whatever tell there might be, there were some people that did not bear trusting, no matter the charming exterior. It was only Newt’s trust and apparent long-standing acquaintance with the man that stayed him from simply getting the both of them out of there straight away, but that wasn’t to say that his patience did not have limits. 

So, as the bard did what bards supposedly did best and began his tale, Percival made sure to watch Dumbledore with the keenness usually associated with the amber bird that currently sat upon Newt’s shoulder.

“I’m not entirely sure where to start, I-…uh, were you aware that I was travelling the continent with Leta? As part of a troupe?”

“Quite aware, Lord Lestrange was most adamantly against the idea and even propositioned me to use my position of influence to have Leta brought back to him. I declined, naturally - it was not my place to do so.” Percival’s eyes narrowed but when he glanced sideways at Newt, he saw genuine surprise there with a touch of appreciation too and the spymaster’s lip curled as he looked back to Dumbledore as he nodded for Newt to continue. 

“Well, we travelled together for some time but eventually, Leta left our group – she’s to be married, you see, and her fiancé decided that a bardic lifestyle was inappropriate for her,” there was a touch of pain in Newt’s voice here, a part of the tale that Percival had not been much aware of until this point and he found his eyes slipping over to take in the bard’s expression. It was purposefully blank, a slight glimmer of something in his eyes perhaps but nothing that could indicate the deeper loss that his words implied. “Anyway, it wasn’t long after Leta left that we played in an inn near the Varin border and it…did not go well…”

The tale continued as Percival knew it to; Newt’s words weaving images of the appalling behaviour of the tavern-dwellers, the bards’ flight, Newt’s return and his and Percival’s subsequent first encounter, Grindelwald’s pursuit of the troupe and Newt’s abduction. However, Percival’s attention was drawn more keenly when Newt faltered as he spoke of what happened next, sea-stained eyes steeling and tone difficult to discern past the evident pain in it, and the dull exhaustion that seemed to cling to him.

“He was-…he was rather _insistent_ in his attempts to persuade me. He didn’t simply want a wandering minstrel to play at his establishments as he had originally implied - he seemed to be more interested in my knack - or gift, or whatever it truly is – than in anything else,” the bard shuddered, eyes fixed upon his own lap as he added softly, “Well, almost anything else.”

Here, Dumbledore’s expression caught Percival’s attention: it hardened subtly, a crinkling around his lined eyes and a slight set to his mouth, lips pressing just that fraction tighter, and the spymaster wasn’t sure what to make of it. Disgust, perhaps, at Grindelwald’s intentions? No, that wasn’t it. Maybe concern for where the story was going? No, that didn’t seem quite right either. There was something in Dumbledore’s expression that Percival might’ve called jealousy, had the notion not been so ridiculous. He filed it away carefully in his mind for later, however, as Newt paused, seeming unsure of how to continue – perhaps if he should.

Dumbledore leant forward in his chair, chin resting just above his steepled fingers, expression in that almost blank sereneness once more, “What happened next, Newt?”

Newt opened his mouth but then closed it again, eyes widening and face paling, flushing high in his cheeks, looking very much as though he was going to be sick. Remembering the bard’s earlier nausea and bout of vomiting, Percival stood swiftly, pushing open the window he sat beside before drawing Newt up out of the chair and directing him toward the open window. He kept an arm around the younger man’s shoulder, supporting his heaving form as he retched over the sill, not wanting to risk the bard toppling over the edge in his weakened state. Not much came up at all aside from a bit of dark green colour that might’ve been the tea and Percival found himself concerned for the recurring problem, wondering whether it was a stress or trauma-induced, or if it had something to do with the thing inside the bard.

“You don’t have to tell us everything, Newt, just tell him what he can help with. I know this is hard but you _need_ help and things won’t get any better until you get it.”

Newt nodded, gasping, face paler than ever as he sagged against Percival, the spymaster feeling surprised as the bard willingly leant into him despite everything and he settled down onto the window seat, levering the younger man back to lean against the wall instead, watching in concern as he curled half onto his side with a soft sound caught in his no doubt smarting throat. 

A clear goblet of water was passed over Percival’s shoulder to Newt, a tanned hand pressing it into Newt’s who took it and drank only a few small sips before setting it aside and mumbling, “Sorry bout that...”

“No need to worry, dear boy, it’s not completely surprising,” Dumbledore waited until Newt looked up at him before adding, “Continue when you are ready.”

“No, Newt, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Percival said firmly, as much as he knew Newt voicing his troubles might help the lad, he somehow didn’t think that doing it now or to Dumbledore would be the way to do it. He stared the Maor down as he still half held Newt in one arm, the bard’s eyes having slipping closed though he was still conscious, “We just need to know if you have any experience with dark magic, of the...invasive kind.”

A dark look flashed across Dumbledore’s face, a shadow spearing his bright eyes, “More than I ever wished to -- well, at least, more than is wise.”

Percival’s hackles rose further at the words and his eyes narrowed at the Maor, “Well if that isn’t unhelpfully cryptic and wholly unnerving, I don’t know what is.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, tilting and shrugging his shoulders slightly, “My more dramatic tendencies sometimes get ahead of me. It tends to help in deterring unwanted visitors and superstitious locals,” he offered a wry smile that only marginally eased Percival’s scepticism “But it’s also the truth, I have travelled a great deal and learned much more in the process. And, having heard something of Grindelwald and his methods, I believe that my ill-gotten knowledge may well prove useful here.” He crouched eye-level with Newt, waiting until the bard looked at him, eyes bright with evident humiliation and discomfort as Dumbledore continued, “I just need you to tell me what’s wrong, Newt, and I’ll see if I can help.” 

Newt truly impressed him then as he nodded, his eyes clearing and his stance solidifying until was sat almost upright on his own, still mindful of the thing inside of him but as steady as his circumstances could allow. “Anything you could do would be greatly appreciated. I’m sorry to put this upon you but it’s of a very...personal nature, and I’m not sure who else I could trust.” 

This time, Percival was almost certain it was guilt that he saw in Dumbledore’s eyes as the wizard stepped closer to the ailing bard.


	12. Questionable Treatment

The room Newt was led into was above the one he had taken to be the top of the tower. It was smaller than the previous room, though felt much more spacious because the roof was compromised of a huge, half-glass dome that most certainly wasn’t visible from the outside. Newt got the feeling that it was above the roof of the tower and that the outside appearance had been charmed to appear as the blank sky and rock beyond it. He could see the birds nesting below when he stepped to the room’s edge, looking down and smiling as the adolescent Amber-Jay upon his shoulder cawed and looked away, deciding that a nearby bookcase looked like a good perch.

The sizable space was decidedly less cluttered than the floors below and only boasted a single bookcase that was neatly ordered and arranged and a few desks that blended into the rock face that formed the far wall. They had ascended the staircase through the wooden floor and Newt couldn’t help but look around in awe, both at the stunning view of the surrounding coastal scenery and of the town below even, as he sat upon the nearby table as directed. Albus waved his hand at a set of dark drapes slid across one side of the giant pane of glass. The sudden dimness that enveloped the room made both it and its visitor feel less exposed, more insular. He knew that no one could see them from the outside anyway, but he found that the expanse of glass and open sky reminded him quite keenly of how far-reaching Grindelwald’s sight was. A paranoid feeling that even here, someone like that could still have a hold on him – _did_ still have a hold on him. As his body so readily reminded him.

“So, Newt, what of the day’s trouble?” Newt almost smiled, fondly recalling the same words being said to him on several occasions throughout his childhood and early adolescence whenever Albus had been visiting and had discovered Newt was in yet another dubious situation. Whether he was covered head to toe in mud and tree-sap from his forest explorations, smoked and cindered from visiting Aotrom and her mother or climbing down from where he’d been hiding yet another forbidden creature in his hiding place on one of the mansion’s lower roofs, Albus had always seemed to look at him in that same serene, mildly amused way, ready to correct or even gently chastise – to explain why the humans around him were unhappy with his behaviour in a calm and collected way - but never to berate in the way that the Lestranges or the groundsman would have. 

He looked tiredly across at Albus; the years since he had last seen his mentor and friend had evened out their differences in height before Newt had sat as instructed, and perhaps even some of their features. Newt’s naturally subdued posture further mitigated any advantage he may have had in a few inches of height and the weight of his pain and misery exacerbated that difference. Newt blinked himself back into better cognition as he realised that his companion expected an answer of him, and offered a wry smile that flaked at the edges with residual strain, “Yes, sorry, I ah-…” he trailed off rather uselessly, unsure and unwilling to voice the nature of the issue he had come to the man to resolve. It was humiliating and intimate – something he wouldn’t want to share with anyone, let alone someone he admired greatly and wished would only see the better parts of him. As he always seemed to. 

“This is…rather difficult.”

“I can imagine it must be, if it vexed both you and your admirably capable companion,” Albus replied, and Newt dipped his head in a half nod, eyes studying his stolen battered boots. “One can only wonder where you picked up such a knowledgeable and seemingly dedicated individual. I can’t picture you stooping to hire a mercenary or the like as your guide, though he does seem to be of a similar temperament.” 

Newt huffed a half-laugh, a shaky sound that jarred him slightly, “No mercenary, he’s…a friend, I suppose. Or perhaps an acquaintance of circumstance might be a better description.” 

Albus’ brows rose, “Still, I would urge you to be careful where you place your trust.” Newt looked up questioningly at the elder man and as he did, he could have sworn he saw something close to a warning glimmer in his face, if just for a moment. Albus smiled wanly at him, “Anyway, back to the matter at hand.” He regarded Newt speculatively, clearly waiting for Newt to speak, which he did after a while, albeit stiltedly.

“It’s something Grindelwald did, well, quite a few things actually but one is…more pressing than the rest.”

The thing inside him twitched and hummed its agreement and the bard curled slightly further into himself over the edge of the table, leaning awkwardly from side to side in a futile attempt to reposition the plug in a way that wasn’t ramming it directly into his sore, abused prostate. It thrummed within him, his body clenching in an attempt to squeeze the thing _out_ and his agony doubling as he doubled upon himself, slender arms wrapping around himself tightly as he let out a sharp cry. The throbbing within him intensified before easing off gradually to a gentle, teasing hum that tickled his inner walls in a distracting manner. His skin tingled all over, like pins and needles and the sting of sunburn mixed into one and subtle shivers wracked his thin frame. 

“Such as the rather gaudy piercing I don’t remember you previously sporting?” Albus commented, something odd flashing momentarily in his bright eyes gesturing to Newt’s ear. The bard flushed slightly, hand going absentmindedly to his ear, feeling the place where the links of the chain had been broken off by his arachnid foundling. 

“Yes, well that’s really the least of my problems,” Newt admitted softly before venturing, “He...put something inside of me, it’s magic, dark magic and neither Mister Graves nor I have been able to remove it.” The words came out cleaner than he had expected them to, although he still found himself blinking more rapidly than usual, hands knotting themselves together in his lap and thumbs digging pressure into the joints of one another.

“Right...and can I ask what this object is, or where exactly it was placed?”

Newt swallowed thickly, “It’s-...I couldn’t tell you what it’s made from - it keeps changing shape and-" he cut himself off with a sharp breath, glancing downward pointedly and flushing furiously as Albus followed his gaze, brows knitting in sudden comprehension.

“Right, well, in that case, would it be-…is there a position you would prefer to settle in whilst I better assess the situation?”

Newt considered it but couldn’t think of any way in which this would be comfortable – being on his back would only remind him of having Grindelwald looming over him and would likely spark another bout of anxiety and unwanted memories. Same with sitting on the table’s edge. His eyes began to brim with frustrated, humiliated tears at being forced into such an awkward, exposing situation even after he had escaped the place where his initial violation had occurred. He felt a hand on his shoulder then, Albus standing closer and looking on in evident sympathy. It burned in a way he couldn’t explain, so Newt quickly looked away even as the older man spoke, “Would you like something to calm your nerves?”

Newt’s head jerked up and he suspiciously eyed the half-full goblet of clear liquid in the wizard’s hand, his stomach lurching rebelliously even as his sore, parched throat yearned for some semblance of cool dampness such as that resided in that glass. “It won’t-…it won’t send me to sleep, will it? Or stop me from moving?”

“No, Newt, it will just…make this easier for you,” Albus assured him softly. “It should help with the nausea - it might make you feel a little sleepy given your exhausted state, but you will remain conscious.”

Still, Newt hesitated before the plug inside him gave another thrumming, humming lurch, pressing tighter against that spot that made him see stars and he groaned, leaning into himself but accepting the proffered goblet all the same. He drank it slowly, taking a first small sip, waiting for his disquieted stomach to settle, and then began to take in more with each mouthful; it tasted clean, clear and refreshing. Soon enough, he’d downed the whole concoction. Newt drank simply because he was tired of vomiting up everything he managed to get into his body, tired of the constant sensation of unease and perhaps also just tired of having to resist everything offered him. It went down easy enough, his tingling senses numbing slightly and he swayed quite violently back into a warm body that caught him before he fell from the table.

“Easy there, you’re alright, just lay back now.”

He let Albus take the goblet from his tingling fingers and heard a clink of glass and it was placed aside, the world around him brightened despite the drawn curtains and spun pleasantly, not in a dizzying way, more just a slight, slow spin that felt akin to sitting on a rope-swing in the Lestrange’s grounds and letting the gentle motion of the air turn him. The memory helped to further settle him.

Newt couldn’t help but let his aching body relax back into the cool surface below, going with the hands that guided him until he was laying relatively comfortably on his side. Despite what he knew might come, his body was relaxing and it felt easy to give in. He heard Albus’ voice as if from far away, quiet yet clear as he came to stand beside Newt again, his weathered, handsome face in Newt’s line of sight. The wizard slipped a pillow under Newt, his palm cradled Newt’s heavy head carefully for a moment as he did so, the bard disliking the grip in a way he didn’t quite understand. Albus may be on the eccentric and enigmatic side but he had never given Newt reason to mistrust him. Even if Graves seemed to doubt the wizard.

The youth’s eyes roved around the room again, taking in the humming instruments, worktables, books, scrolls, ingredients and pots. It all seemed rather familiar…had he been here before? No, the tower did not seem familiar at all, but a study or workroom such as this…it drudged up something of his recent memories that refused to quite click. It probably wasn’t all that important. He was too relaxed as it was, a warm hand soothingly resting on his skin and a handsome, familiar face smiling down at him approvingly…no, this was too nice to question, there was no reason to be concerned over trifles. He hadn’t had enough nice recently. Not nearly enough.

“Newt? Have you managed to rest at all since this magic was put inside of you?” the bard looked over, albeit a bit hazily, to meet the clear blue of Albus’ eyes – nice eyes – even if they were a tad hard to focus on right now. He supposed it was the lack of food and the ever-present exhaustion that was affecting him so, he couldn’t imagine that throwing up almost everything he’d consumed over the past twenty-four hours could be good for him. Especially not after the near-dire wound that had been inflicted on him. Not after days in captivity. Asha above was he having a poor string of luck. 

He realised belatedly that Albus was waiting for some sort of acknowledgement and huffed a slight laugh that morphed into sighed words,

“Yes, sorry, yes,” Newt flushed. His lips were moving, speaking in a rush before he realised what was happening, the sensation ringing uncomfortably within his mind as unpleasant and familiar, “though it keeps changing, I can’t keep still because of it.”

Except he was still now, oddly so, his body leaden and as immobile as his aching head. Perhaps he was more affected by all this than he had previously thought…

“Dark magic…it hurts…” Newt mumbled and felt something touch his cheek and when he blinked, turning his head to the side to look for the source, he numbly realised that the feeling was of teardrops sliding down his cheeks. He didn’t remember starting to cry. 

“Can you show me?” that soft, earnest voice again – a nice voice, like the features that accompanied it. Familiar and kind.

Newt nodded, head bobbing on his neck in a disjointed way as he shucked off the cloak, wriggling it from his shoulders and moving fumbling fingers to pull at the strings of the breeches he wore...A flash of an image then _hot tiles beneath his bare feet, eclipsed eyes watching keenly as he undressed, shedding his protective layers onto the bathhouse floor and shame colouring his every movement…unaware of the degradation and violation that would soon befall him in that hot, steamy, sickly-sweet place…a place that was supposed to be cleansing but had been usurped by the sick intent of the people using it…_

His more lucid sense abruptly caught up with him, both with the surge of memory and with the scratching of tiny, insistent familiar green fingers on the underside of his shirt, against his collarbone. Newt released a slow breath and watched the slight bulge under his off-white shirt where Pickett was moving about, glad of the grounding presence of an even older friend – one who had been through almost everything with him. Though thankfully, not through a great deal of what Grindelwald had done to him – it didn’t seem fair to inflict that upon Pickett too. Bowtruckle didn’t place trust lightly and he’d never met another who had chosen to make a lanky human his home in preference to the higher quality of magic-veined trees that Bowtruckles instinctively favoured. Newt didn’t think it fair that Pickett be subjected to his host’s misery. The unexpected reminder of Pickett’s presence and the familiarity of his own movements halted his fumbling digits, his eyes blinking furiously as he tried to sober himself from whatever exhaustion-induced haze he was in. Newt looked up blearily at Albus’ subtly frowning face.

Mercifully, the brief bout of tears seemed to have dried up and though he still felt heavy, he felt a bit better now that he was experiencing a jolt of adrenalin flowing through him. A reaction fuelled by his humiliation, determination and even the residual anger he harboured toward Grindelwald – towards this _whole bloody situation_. 

“Newt?”

“Uh-huh…?” was all Newt managed to get out, the words slurring rather heavily upon his tongue but once again, he couldn’t find it in himself to be angry or scared or suspicious as his mind sunk deeper into whatever quagmire it had dropped itself into. Albus’ smile was thinning now, cracking like the sun-baked mud outside and Newt frowned with it – confused as to what might’ve gone wrong. Though barely even that.

There was a touch to his neck and then a small blur of green was being lifted away from him, a familiar comforting presence – someone who relied on him and Newt’s arm shot out faster than his mind could either edict or comprehend. He caught the green blur of fragile limbs as it fell from the older man’s hand in surprise and Newt clutched his cupped hand back to himself numbly, not feeling the motion but recognizing its importance. Agitated squeaks were coming from his hand and Newt instinctively loosened his grip, afraid he was hurting his friend and was rewarded when the squeaks stopped and he instead felt spindly fingers in his hair, the feeling of a tiny body burrowing into it.

Another small creature followed close behind the green one, a silver haze that scuttled with impressive agility and a human’s curse accompanied it, “What in the name of Thyniet-” 

Newt peeled his eyes open wider and blinked surprised to see a big pair of bright blues right in front of him, he tried rolling back on instinct but only made it an inch or so before a careful yet firm hand on his back stopped him.

“It's alright, your friend just took me by surprise.”

Newt nodded sleepily into the table, his lids drooping again, “They’ll do that…”

He let out a slow stream of soothing hushes to both creatures, reaching a hand up into his hair and feeling both creatures press back against his proffered fingertips, seeming to finally unite in something. Though again, the specifications were lost on Newt as his senses dimmed. He heard a weary chuckle before something was playing with a sore spot upon his ear that was most definitely _not_ either of his creature companions and he moaned quietly, trying to turn his head away in a half-hearted sort of way.

“Come on now, I just want to try to rid you of these frankly garish piercings,” Newt could’ve sworn he heard a mutter follow even if he didn’t quite catch all of it as if was interspersed with murmured chanting and a subtle hum of magic in the air “…can't imagine _what_ he was thinking…” 

Newt hissed lowly as the piercing was slid free and set aside, the bard blinked as he was pushed slightly aside and his shirt was slid up and over his head, his arms limply going with the movements though he tried to aid the attempt sloppily. Though why, he wasn’t quite sure. It seemed to be the right thing to do – to help. Even if he wasn’t sure why. He could see his torso quite clearly from where he had flopped temporarily on his side, his ribs formed near hollow trenches and his stomach had sunken slightly, the scars upon his torso and hips – both old and new - standing out all the more prominently. “Oh, Newt...” it was so quiet that he barely heard the murmur. 

A hand, warm and offensively familiar brushed gently over the newest scar to adorn him, the white, spidery, _tender_ scar and he gasped, attempting to writhe away, a flash of an image blinding him again _slightly callused, workworn hands rubbing down his spine as he lay blind and beaten into the ground, the cool gauze of a sarong played against sensitive flesh...that same hand brushing through his hair and over his face, silencing him as he tried to question its presence – its owner...a hand that burned and belonged to a Phoenix...Grindelwald’s partner in everything...wasn’t that what Graves had said? And hadn’t Newt heard Grindelwald’s teasing voice murmur alongside these very hands touching him? “_ _Now, now, love, it’s just a little taste...very well, later then.”_

As before, the jogging of his memory served to rouse Newt a fraction from his stupor but this time, the creatures around him reacted to his distress too, to the confusion and implacable sense of betrayal he felt as his eyes shot open. Metal slid across stinging skin, through the tender nub of his nipple and the bard gasped as the second piercing was removed, though not quite as dramatically as Albus did as he was assaulted by a flying blur of spidery spindle silver legs and pincers. Newt could feel how Nessa did – the rage at having her perceived birthplace violated with the removal of the metal and magic – and despite the human knowing better, the part of him that was joined with her encouraged the young arachnid in her shredding of the wizard’s skin.

“Newt, Newt, calm yourself, you’re safe. You’re here in my home. You aren’t in Nurmengard any longer. The piercings are gone. The magic too, nearly…his claim on you is being washed away…it doesn’t belong there…neither do you…you’re safe…”

The voice calmed him again and the eyes that accompanied it did too. Blue. Very blue. Too blue. He didn’t remember them looking that blue before. But the voice, if he closed his eyes, that voice was the thing he could focus on and it remained steady, familiar and calm. A safe perch in a strong wind, a place where he could feel the air and emotion move around him, be buffeted but remain steadfast, his toes – his claws – keeping sure grooves in the place on which he rested.

Warm hands were brushing down his sides, meeting fabric once they reached his hips and slipping away momentarily before the obstacle was removed completely, Newt’s hips lifting with the movement and he felt weightless and giddy as it happened. A quiet laugh bubbled up between his lips and spilt into the sunlit air. Something was clicking along in his mind, like the wheels of a cart on a cliff edge, each bump, each slip, moving him closer to some inevitable plummet – an abrupt realisation…but his hazed mind couldn’t seem to grasp quite what that was or would be.

Then, something at the core of him was touched, stroked, tugged and pulled, strong fingers fixing around the edges, and it felt like it was trying to draw his insides out. He let out a sound of anguish, he wasn’t sure what it was past the sound of unintelligible chanting, the words coming too firm and fast for him to understand even if he understood the various languages of magic that were being evoked. He thrashed, he could feel that much, tried to fight the feeling of strong, lightly-calloused fingers pressing into him alongside the substantial weight of something else, gripping around it, touching something deep in him that sparked pleasure along with the agony, exploded shards of crystalline euphoria behind his closed eyes…the weight was leaving now…being taken away by those caressing, careful fingers…and then it was gone.

Newt came back to himself with painful clarity.

Everything assaulted him all at once, the feeling of emptiness within his gaping, aching hole, his nipple and ear throbbing keenly with each beat of his suddenly racing heart. He felt the cool wood pressed against his face and chest, the way he was lying facedown on the table, his arms curved to rest on either side of his head, slightly above him. He could feel the warm air and the continued dimness of the room even before he opened his eyes again and when he did, he also took in the concerned face hovering close to his, eyes wide and a more natural blue set in a lined, weary face.

“Ah, you’re back with me now, are you?” 

“Reasonably,” Newt croaked and then grimaced at the dryness of his throat as well as the throb behind his eyes. A moment later Newt’s chin was being tilted up and a cup was placed against his lips. The bard drank only a little before the drink was taken away and he could’ve cried until he realised that drinking too much too quickly would only make him ill again. Memories flashed back to him and he gasped, trying to scramble up, wheezing slightly as weakness overtook him, forcing his lower body to sink back to the table before he’d even gotten an inch up.

“Ungh-…ah! Did it-…did it work? Is it…out?”

He felt a hand pat his shoulder briefly before releasing it, “Yes, Newt, it’s gone, not that it was easy but it's gone.” 

“Ah, why can’t I move?”

And he couldn’t, his arms felt leaden and his head still heavy even as his hole felt open and unpleasantly empty – the muscles twitching as they tried to clench around something that was no longer there. He almost found that he _wanted_ something there and he witnessed the briefest flash of images behind his eyes – of Graves’ tender fingers as they’d gripped him and brought him to completion…he couldn’t help but imagine those dexterous fingers travelling lower…pressing in…the fantasy brought a flush to his face and he threw his senses back into the here and now with deliberate force.

It struck him suddenly that he was completely naked and he tried to move again, to curl into himself or to cover himself in some way but found that his wrists dragged and stuck where they were. He looked to the side, flushing furiously as he realised his own exposure but then feeling a chill flow through him when he saw that his wrists were strapped down to the table’s surface with soft but secure leather straps. Their familiarity jarred him with a vicious abruptness and he jerked his hands violently against the restraints, panicking and feeling his breathing spike, his vision blurring. “Why-...why am I tied down? Albus?”

He heard a sigh from a short distance away, Albus seemingly having moved further away, a clinking of metal and a tapping of what sounded like chalk on wood accompanying soft steps. “You were thrashing around whilst I was trying to remove Grindelwald’s magic from you and I was concerned that you would hurt yourself further. This seemed like the best option.”

Newt was not placated, “But they’re not necessary now, don’t you think?”

“I think that it would be best they stay on for now,” Albus’ voice was calm still but cool in a way that it hadn’t been before, and it only increased Newt’s attempts to tug himself free. He rotated his wrists against the soft leather, hoping that his previous experience with such bonds and the suppleness of the material might allow him some leeway. He was quickly proven wrong however as they seemed to tighten with his movements.

“Please- just let me up,” his voice was not yet desperate, but the look in his eyes that Albus was greeted with as he stepped back into Newt’s line of sight told the real story. Albus looked down at him with an odd expression – a thousand things at once but most presently, it seemed to contain a great sadness. It was almost wistful. Newt dropped his head again, the effort to hold it up too much, the hopelessness he felt looking into the other man’s eyes...too much. He buried his face into the crook of his arm and sucked in wet breaths, scrunching his eyes tight shut, wanting this to be a nightmare or hallucination that he could wake up from if only he knew how. People like Albus weren’t supposed to do things like this. Old friends and mentors were not meant to bind and humiliate each other when one had come to the other for help. They weren’t supposed to violate another’s trust in this manner.

“It's alright, you are safe for now. There’s no point in fretting, whatever comes to pass will do so whether you worry or not. Do you remember what I told you when you were worried about Lord Lestrange finding out what you’d hidden in the woodshed?”

Despite himself and how wretched he was feeling, Newt mumbled his response as the words rang true in his head, “Worrying just means you suffer twice.”

“That’s right, and I know it may not seem like it now, but things will be better soon enough...you just have to have the patience to wait for it. You won’t remember any of this…nasty business.”

“What?” Newt croaked, cracking his eyes open to stare confusedly up at the older man but before Albus could answer, however, there was a creak from the floor below, loud and startling. Newt was confused for a moment or so before he abruptly remembered that they were not alone in the tower. Graves. Graves would help him. Help get him out of whatever baffling, awful situation he’d dropped himself into this time.

“G-Graves!” he yelled, coughing a little past his dry throat before trying again, louder this time “Graves, I need hel-"

He was rudely cut off however as a hand was pressed over his mouth and he shook his head, trying to dislodge it. Before he could try to bite the stifling appendage away, the hand left though was back an instant later with a ball of cloth that was stuffed between his lips and wedged between and behind his teeth. He stared up at Albus in further confusion, seeing a palpable tension to the other man’s bearded jaw and warning in his eyes, Newt struggled all the more, thrashing his head and attempting to dislodge the wedge of cloth to free his tongue.

“Newt?!” He heard Graves’ yelled response and then a sigh from Albus, frustrated and exasperated in equal measure. Newt tried to yell a response but it came out as a muffled, incomprehensible mess that just seemed to exasperate Albus further as he set the bard with an infuriated look – as if _he_ were the one being unreasonable. The sentiment, _again_ , was familiar and Newt’s eyes narrowed in his flushed face, a muffled half-growl coming out of his blocked mouth. 

Albus ducked down, bent at the waist so that he was on eye level with Newt, face set, eyes infallible and spoke in a low voice, “I truly only want what’s the best for you, Newt, and that man downstairs _cannot_ be trusted. He a notorious thief and murderer, he thrives off of swindling the vulnerable, and though I believe he may have truly helped you by bringing you here, I don’t believe that he did it in your best interests.” He glanced toward the stairwell behind Newt before adding softly, sadly, “That mask he wears hides his true intent and anything you might believe to be true of him is, I would strongly wager, merely a lie meant to placate you into abetting him...You used your affinity with creatures to aid his escape, yes?”

Newt nodded warily and Albus sighed again, a patient, sympathetic sound, “He was using you, Newt. It’s a good thing you came to me rather than continuing to travel with him. The most probable outcome of doing so would’ve been your further abuse as he attempted to ransom you back to Grindelwald. You were likely his way of ensuring a clean getaway – he meant to keep you around until Grindelwald inevitably caught up with him and he could then use you as a bargaining chip.”

Newt shook his head numbly, disbelieving, though at the same time, felt a thrill of fear at the words – at how easily he could’ve been misled. Trusting a man like Graves had seemed a dangerous thing – it had, of course, occurred to him that the thief might be using him, but then again, he had also felt that the Riskian was being earnest with him. There had been moments in which, despite the mask hiding Graves’ face, Newt could’ve sworn that he could _see_ through it and into the man’s true nature. Could’ve sworn that he liked what he saw: that he trusted it. However, he also couldn’t deny that what Albus was saying made more sense than some stupid, instinctual need to trust the man that had helped him escape Grindelwald and had cared for him when no one else would. 

But there was also a part of him that was screaming that he was considering advice from a man who had tied him down and gagged him against his will and was refusing to let him go.

The most likely conclusion that Newt’s swimming mind could come to was that he could trust neither of the men in the tower. And that hurt like nothing else. The idea that he had no one to turn to and that both one of his oldest friends and his newest were untrustworthy and intended to hurt him. He should’ve known better than to trust humans in the first place.

A memory floated to the surface of his mind then, gently reminding him of the fact that had Graves meant to use Newt in the way that Albus was implying, he would’ve had ample opportunity to do so when Grindelwald’s knife had pierced the bard instead of the thief. He could’ve made Newt a hostage or held him as a human shield rather than getting them both to safety. And Graves had been so patient with Newt after he woke – had waited for consent to do anything that could’ve made the bard uncomfortable…why would someone who only wanted to use him as a hostage do that? To make Newt trust him more? By the divines, was this perplexing!

Newt decided then and there that there was one thing he could be sure of. Graves had yet to do him harm, not since their unfortunate first meeting and even then, the thief had been relatively gentle with him despite the circumstances. No, the clear and present danger in this tower seemed to be Albus and whatever had possessed his old friend to effectively abduct him. And he wasn’t even going to _begin_ to contemplate why that was happening with such increasing frequency. Newt found himself missing the time when the worst treatment he got was disgruntled locals throwing beer mugs at him. Part of the appeal of the life of a wandering half-penny bard was the fact that most people of any consequence were happy to ignore him.

The individual who was currently denying him such anonymity had straightened whilst Newt was busy pondering his words and draped an old, worn blanket over Newt’s lower half and despite his desire to continue struggling to free himself, Newt stilled slightly lest the covering fall away. It was a minor comfort given the circumstances, though still a welcome relief from the feeling of exposure and of the open-air tickling his loosened hole. The reason for the sudden attempts at comfort became clear however as more soft bands of leather appeared and wrapped his ankles, binding him together and to the table. Albus also repositioned the large cushion that had fallen from under his head so that it now not only cushioned his face but covered his bound arms.

The wizard looked at him levelly before he pressed a hand over Newt’s eyes, the lids slipping over the confused sea-stained orbs against his will and no matter how hard he tried, his eyes would not open again. Panic overwhelmed him as the sensation of soft cotton met his already stuffed mouth, what felt like bandages wrapping round and round his mouth and head until the lower half of his face and the entirety of his neck was covered in layers of soft fabric. It was not uncomfortable but the stifling, restricting nature of the binding flared panic hotter inside the bard, his heavy limbs weakening in their struggles as more magic descended upon him. He wasn’t sure why Albus hadn’t just made him unconscious but he somehow could not imagine that his enforced awareness of his own vulnerability was for his benefit. 

He heard a thumping of footsteps then; they came to a halt nearby and he felt a jolt of hope go through him in his blind and numbed state as he heard Graves’ near growling voice, “What’s going on here?” 

“I’ve done my best with his injuries and the magic that invaded him but I think the best thing for him now is rest,” Albus said in a deceptively reasonable tone that jarred a nerve in Newt and he huffed a breath that was near inaudible against the mass of fabric gagging him. “Though how you entered this room despite my wards, I am curious indeed. I thought I was rather thorough when I set them up some time ago to deter _thieves_.”

A huff of breath that sounded irritated and humouring, “I’ve dealt with worse; don’t you worry.” A creak of steps getting closer and Newt tensed, breathing increasing in anticipation, trying to make some indicator to tell Graves that he was not asleep and that he needed assistance. “I heard Newt’s voice; he was calling for help.”

“He was somewhat delirious as I treated him – he seemed to forget who I was and believed that Grindelwald had come to reclaim him.” Albus’ lie sounded the perfect approximation of sorrowful concern and had Newt not known better, he might’ve believed the man but it seemed that Graves was not so naive. 

“And yet he called for my help - by name?” the words were laced heavily with scepticism, “A man he barely knows and whilst he was in the company of ‘an old friend’? That seems rather unlikely to me.”

“Be as dubious as you like, I’m merely speaking the truth.”

“I don’t think so.” 

Newt writhed upon the table as much as he was able, keen now for his bondage to be revealed even if it exposed him further. Thankfully, he managed to get the blanket high enough that his bound ankles were exposed and he heard a low curse from Graves. 

There was a swift sound then, like the swish of metal through the air and a jarring sound that Newt could not place. He heard a grunt, a cry, the thump of two pairs of steps and then an incomprehensible blur of sound.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

To be at Newt’s side, to guard him and keep him safe from the obvious threats of Grindelwald and of travelling alone in the state he was in - those were things that were relatively simple for Percival. Things that required him to simply give in to his well-honed instincts and years of experience. But to leave Newt alone with this man; a man who had already been caught out lying once in the short time that Percival had known him, a man that set off almost every one of the spymaster’s instincts…that was another matter entirely.

It had been a struggle not to tell Dumbledore to fuck right off and leave the bard alone but he had tempered his reaction as the older man had guided a sagging Newt from the room and up a final flight of stairs into what Percival imagined must be an attic space of some kind, perhaps a workshop. Dumbledore had suggested that Newt might appreciate privacy rather than having two men hovering over him and whilst Percival did not trust the Maor, he couldn’t fault the reasoning. Even if a part of him wanted to snap that Newt seemed more comfortable with him around. It wasn’t entirely true, however, not when he had the mask’s glamor working at its full potential – whatever it was about the lad that allowed him to see past it causing more distress than was right.

But despite his misgivings, Percival had settled for waiting downstairs for the mage’s work to be done, he’d even managed to scrounge together some remedies and bandages with which to bind his injured leg properly. The wound was hot and itchy and he had been coming to the unavoidable conclusion that he would have to care for it sooner or later but had hoped that he could do so out of sight of his bardic companion. Not only would the lad likely fuss over the wound again when he saw its degenerating state but he’d also witness Percival’s other, more obvious affliction, one that was never usually an issue and often proved to be more of a benefit than anything else. 

He had pasted, salved and rebandaged the wound on his flesh-and-blood leg, refastened his breeches and sat warily, wearily upon one of the admittedly comfortable chairs. He’d been lightly dozing when he had heard Newt’s yell come from above. He'd been fully awake and on his feet in seconds, calling back to Newt and thumping up the stairs until he hit a solid ward wall that had him stumbling backwards momentarily, almost falling flat on his arse as he was wrong-footed. He had exerted a great deal of concentration to ignore his panic and anger and focus upon dismantling the worryingly complex wards that wove the air. Graves made his way past them and entered the room only to witness a seemingly innocuous scene – Newt lying pale and bandaged under a blanket and pillows and Dumbledore standing nearby looking sad and sage, drying his hands on a cloth. There was the tell-tale hum of magic in the air, fresh and sharp, and a low-grade humming sound tickled the atmosphere.

There was a moment when he almost thought that he’d misheard the shout or perhaps imagined it altogether, but then he noticed how Newt’s figure was held in an odd position, arms up above his head and under the pillow, his legs tight together and his mouth and jaw bandaged along with his abused throat. The way his slender body heaved with strained, heavy breaths despite his seemingly-unconscious state. Even from where he stood, Graves could sense that something was wrong. So he stepped forward with the intention of damn-well doing something about it.

“What’s going on here?” 

Dumbledore looked up as at him as if Graves hadn’t just broken through a solid charm wall to get in there – mildly surprised and tired looking, “I’ve done my best with his injuries and the magic that invaded him but I think the best thing for him now is rest,” he gestured to where Newt lay and set the cloth aside before crossing his flamboyantly clad arms across his chest and adding with a stern gaze, “Though how you entered this room despite my wards, I am curious indeed. I thought I was rather thorough when I set them up some time ago to deter _thieves_.”

Graves huffed, eyes narrowing as he detected a particular emphasis upon the last word, “I’ve dealt with worse; don’t you worry.” He stepped forward and his eyes quickly fixed upon Newt’s prone form as he saw the bard twitch underneath the blanket, a full-bodied, desperate thing, accompanied by a muted whimper that had Percival’s eyes snapping up in further suspicion to Dumbledore once more. He spoke bluntly, “I heard Newt’s voice; he was calling for help.”

“He was somewhat delirious as I treated him – he seemed to forget who I was and believed that Grindelwald had come to reclaim him.”

Dumbledore’s lie sounded the perfect approximation of sorrowful concern but Graves saw through it immediately, his already raised hackles were practically vibrating with the urge to draw his stolen sword and fillet the wizard where he stood. Instead, he gripped the hilt and chose a slightly less aggressive phrase to start with.

“And yet he called for my help - by name?” he couldn’t help the scepticism that dripped from his words and didn’t feel any inclination to try, “A man he barely knows, and whilst he was in the immediate company of ‘an old friend’? That seems rather unlikely to me.”

“Be as dubious as you like, I’m merely speaking the truth.”

Bullshit.

“I don’t think so.” 

Newt moved upon the table, a definite, deliberate jerk, his head tossing from side to side and legs kicking out in a singular, disjointed motion that rucked the blanket covering him up, exposing the presence of leather cuffs binding the bard’s ankles together. He swore softly, looking up to Dumbledore with assured purpose now. 

Graves gave in to his instincts and drew the enchanted blade, slicing it up swiftly and aiming to level it at the man's throat. It never reached its target, however, as an invisible shield drew sparks from both the air and the blade in a blinding silver blur. Graves began his assault in earnest, jabbing, cutting and slashing but being met each time with a blur of silver heat as Dumbledore’s arms moved blindingly fast, swirls of blue, star-studded fabric masking whatever objects or magic were being employed to block his attacks.

They continued to spar with immense speed, Graves never quite seeing where the blows or defence were coming from but keeping up with them nonetheless before they managed to come into contact with him. However, Dumbledore seemed more than capable of keeping up with him, moving with a strength and speed that belied his kindly, sage persona and slighter frame. He still had breath it seemed, to continue talking as if nothing were happening.

“I really don’t think that this is going to end particularly well for you, Graverobber,” he commented mildly as he parried a particularly vicious slash with a twirl of silver that sent Percival reeling back half a step and almost crashing into the table edge, “or is it ‘Mister Graves’ now? A rather charming attempt at domesticity on your part, I must say.”

Newt had flinched violently with the impact of Graves’ body upon the table and the spymaster made quick work of slashing the bonds holding Newt’s wrists down before he turned to face Dumbledore once more. Percival growled, releasing the specific glamor and allowing the general blur to overcome his appearance once more as he renewed his assault, “Newt wanted something to call me and I think he did a better job naming me than he did of finding trustworthy or loyal friends.”

Dumbledore tutted and sidestepped neatly to avoid a swift jab, “I’m entirely loyal, just not to the whims of criminals that are escorted through my door – no matter their company."

“And also not to people who come to you for help?” Percival countered with a snarl, twisting with surprising grace for a man with one good leg and flicking the sword from his right hand to his left, slamming the elaborate yet weighty pommel into the back of the Maor’s head faster than the older man could block. Dumbledore’s bright eyes flared then dimmed as he stumbled to the side, half-collapsing into the table where Newt lay pinned and Percival did not hesitate to take advantage and sweep the blade down, aiming for a maiming blow across the man’s chest. Somehow, despite the circumstances and having every reason to do so, Percival did not aim to kill Dumbledore then…not until he heard what Newt had to say. Thoroughly suspicious and dishonest as he was, he was still someone that Newt seemed to care for, and Percival had learnt over a long life of espionage that even seemingly evil actions sometimes had understandable or even noble intentions behind them. Though here, Percival was thoroughly doubtful. 

The tip of the blade struck across the exposed patch of Dumbledore’s chest, just below his collarbone, but before Graves could complete the action, he was rocked off his feet and slammed into the ground a few feet away. He looked up to see Newt sat hunched over the edge of the table, bare feet scraping the floor and the blanket wrapped shakily around his waist by one arm whilst the other was held, palm-out to the form of the surprisingly strong Amber-Jay that had chosen to accompany Newt. Where it had come from, Percival wasn’t sure, but he was fairly certain that the creature had been what knocked him from his feet and separated him from the Maor still on the ground. Though Dumbledore looked to have recovered from the blow enough for his vision to focus properly, he had not stood and was sitting half-sprawled, holding the back of his head and gazing at Newt intently. There was a flush high in his cheeks, though Newt’s face was otherwise pale and the bandages that had encased his mouth, face and throat were in shredded tatters upon his blanketed lap. The tiny green figure of one of his companions – Pickett, Newt had called him – stood proud and protective upon the lad’s shoulder. Tiny black eyes glared at Dumbledore with about as much fury as Graves had. It would have almost been amusing had Newt not looked so strained, scared and betrayed.

“Newt? Are you alright? What was he doing?” Percival asked, moving onto his feet smoothly, his eyes remaining fixed upon Dumbledore as the man did the same but did not move from the spot where he had fallen.

Newt didn’t look at Percival though his words were answer enough even as they were aimed at Dumbledore.

“I don’t know but I’d bloody well like an explanation of how and why you ended up at Nurmengard and what you want with me?”

Percival’s head turned sharply to Newt, eyes narrowing before he glared back at Dumbledore with a new intensity, stepping forward to place a supporting hand upon Newt’s sagging shoulder, feeling a slight flinch but subsequent relief when the bard did not recoil. “What makes you think he was at Nurmengard? Why didn’t you mention something earlier?”

Newt’s sea-stained, red-rimmed eyes were fixed upon Dumbledore’s pained face with unmatched intensity, a deep-rooted betrayal lingering there, simmering along with pain and fear.

“His hands,” the bard replied simply, softly but with certainty.

It was enough for Graves, and he levelled the stolen blade at Dumbledore once more, pricking the hollow of the mage’s throat with it and tilting Dumbledore’s head up as he did so, “Who are you, really?”

Dumbledore didn’t look at him, eyes fixed upon Newt with apparent though doubtful sincerity, “The situation here is more complex than you can comprehend but I assure you, if you trust me, it will be better for everyone involved. It may not seem like it, but I will explain once I am able.”

“Why not now?” Newt asked, voice cutting despite its fragility. “You’re in league with Grindelwald – I came to you for help and you behave no better than him. Why should I even consider trusting you?”

“Have I ever failed you before, Newt? Even if my recent actions may seem…suspect,” Percival scoffed openly at that but was resolutely ignored as Dumbledore continued, “I do not intend to condemn you to a life at Grindelwald’s side – it’s the last thing I would wish for you, but I also would not leave you at the Graverobber’s mercy. Would you not rather be rid of both of their influences and continue with your life as you were living it before you were dragged into these affairs? To travel with your troupe with no memories of all that befell you before you met either of them?”

Percival’s eyes narrowed and Newt huffed a weary breath, “Even if I believed you – I don’t know where my friends went and they wouldn’t remember me even if I did. Grindelwald stole their memories – he told me.”

Dumbledore’s eyes shone with earnest intent then, “I can bring those memories back, Newt, and take away your own if you so choose. You could carry on with your life uninterrupted – travelling as you intended to and unaffected by all that has occurred.”

Percival saw Newt falter then, clearly considering the promise in the Maor’s words and tempted – to go back to the life he had and to forget the abuse that befell him – but then his gaze hardened and he looked up at Dumbledore with new resolve.

“No. It wouldn’t be right – it wouldn’t work. What would stop Grindelwald coming after me again, or my friends? And what of Graves?” he jerked his head toward the spymaster in question who blinked, surprised, but with a warm glow kindling in him as the bard continued, “Why not just tell me this if this was your intention? The fact that you tried to go ahead and take away my memories without my permission tells me that this most definitely is not in my interests. There’s something you aren’t telling me.” Newt had straightened, seemingly unconsciously, as he spoke and looked at his former mentor with impressive determination considering his state, “You still haven’t explained why you were at Nurmengard – with Grindelwald.”

Dumbledore’s eyes cast down then, glancing at the sword point scratching the base of his throat, he took a deep breath before answering in a disturbingly calm tone, “I was with him because that is where I belong - more than you ever will. And I implore you not to make the mistake of thinking that you could evade his interests without my assistance. I am – as Mister Graves so aptly put it – his partner in everything. He trusts me, perhaps, above all else – my help in this would prove invaluable to you, I assure you.” 

Percival cursed lowly under his breath and pressed the sword harder to Dumbledore – the fucking _Phoenix_ ’s – chest, fully prepared now to end the bastard now and forever. Unless his moniker was to be believed, of course...

He was stopped again, however, though this time by Newt’s hand upon his shoulder rather than the fury of a deceptively gawky bird. Percival turned back, half in exasperation and half in resignation to meet the bard’s conflicted stare.

“Don’t kill him.”

“What?”

“Let’s just go.”

“That would be wise,” Dumbledore interjected and Percival shot him a brief sidelong glare but otherwise ignored the Maor in favour of studying the bard’s expression – he was drained, strained and miserable looking certainly, but he also looked stronger in a way that Percival didn’t remember seeing him.

“I don’t think that leaving the right-hand man of the most dangerous man on the continent alive is the best idea, Newt – he’s responsible for almost as much death, maiming and general misery as Grindelwald. By the looks of it, he was getting ready to hand you right back over to him, or just keep you for himself!” 

“Actually, I was attempting to _prevent_ that but-”

“Oh shut it,” Percival snapped and Dumbledore gave him a withering look that the Riskian promptly ignored, turning back to Newt. “He’s not to be trusted - he just openly admitted to being Grindelwald’s lover – if nothing else that should make you question his sanity, let alone his judgement.”

Newt gave him a hard look, “The people Grindelwald has as his ‘lovers’ rarely seem to be there voluntarily and most-half of them appear to be brainwashed.... who’s to say that isn’t the case here?”

Percival almost flinched, inwardly cringing at the implications of the words – of the potent reminder of what had so recently been forced on Newt. He softened his approach slightly in response to the guilt and anger gnawing at him.

“Even if it _was,_ that still means he’s dangerous and answers to Grindelwald,” Percival half-implored before huffing and closing his eyes momentarily and looking to Dumbledore with renewed ire. “Why don’t we ask him, then? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Dumbledore sighed too, and this sound was infinitely wearier than any sound that had come out of his mouth thus far, “It almost doesn’t matter now, it’s too late.” His brows furrowed neatly as he took a step back from Percival’s stolen blade – the first apparent sign of apprehension he'd shown either the spymaster or the weapon since it had been put to his throat.

“What do you-” Percival never got to finish his question as he was slammed aside for the second time in as many minutes. Unfortunately, this time his head happened to slam into the corner of the table and the world around him went very fuzzy for a few crucial moments. A rainbow of black, white and red eclipsed his vision and his ears were pierced with an awful ringing sound that left him reeling further.

When he managed to blink and refocus his eyes enough to see what the hell was going on around him, he was dismayed to recognise an eerily familiar face sneering down at him with curled lips, a sallow smile and mismatched eyes.

Grindelwald.

Shit.


	13. Triage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please beware this chapter if you are expecting Dumbledore to be a good character as, for now at least, he most certainly is not.

Newt stepped around swiftly to face the new threat in the room – oh and how many there suddenly seemed to be – levelling his stance as best he could whilst still clutching the blanket about his waist in one shaking hand. Grindelwald stood by a full-length mirror that was slowly defusing from a surge of bright blue-white light that hurt even in the edges of his vision, enough so that Newt found little difficulty in focussing his attention solely upon Albus and Grindelwald instead of whatever magic inhabited the looking glass. The one thing that did prove an adequate distraction, however, was Graves: the man currently dazed and bleeding on the floor beside him. Newt’s eyes flickered repeatedly down to Graves, and he felt only minor relief when he saw that the man’s eyes had regained some of their focus in the scant minute since Grindelwald had forcibly thrown the man with a blast of magic.

Grindelwald was, surprisingly enough, not looking at either Graves or Newt and had instead fixed his attention upon the side of his partner’s face. The bearded mage had, oddly, not looked at Grindelwald since his rather dramatic entrance. The older man’s bright blue eyes were instead focussed upon the view out onto the bay, and his expression seemed distant but more than aware, a slight set to his lips that hinted at a deeper dissatisfaction. Though he did dip his head at Grindelwald when the man came up to stand beside him, the flaxen-haired man’s hands coming up to rest upon Albus’ shoulder in a brief, possessive squeeze before Grindelwald let out a low chuckle.

“I appreciated the invitation, Albus. Thank you ever so much for alerting me of the problem.”

“Of course,” Albus replied easily, albeit a little stiffly and Grindelwald’s hand tightened visibly where it still rested upon Albus’ midnight-blue clad shoulder. Newt stepped back slightly, hoping to check on Graves as the other two men conversed but froze instantly as Grindelwald’s eclipsed eyes fixed upon him the second that he moved. The leather-clad man moved forward, releasing his hold on Albus and stepping close into Newt’s personal space. Newt cringed back instinctively, his emaciated, scarred, pale form a stark contrast against the muscular structure and sound body tightly clad in black leather.

“Hello there, little Ræv,” Grindelwald half-cooed with a sick smile. Newt swallowed and took a step back, almost tripping as his right foot struck Graves' motionless, surprisingly _solid_ leg and was hit with a jolt of familiarity from their first encounter as Grindelwald’s hand shot out to steady him. “Steady there, my pretty bard, you’ve had quite the little journey, haven’t you? You wouldn’t want to overexcite yourself before our fun begins anew, now would you?”

Newt said nothing; his voice stuck in his throat, as he truly didn’t know how to respond. What to do. He knew from experience that escaping Grindelwald or his magic was no easy feat and attempting to do so in his current state, with Albus’ presence to factor into it...his chances were looking slim indeed. Grindelwald evidently saw his hesitancy as he tutted quietly, still smiling that wide, wide smile as he brought his hand up to cup Newt’s cheek, using his grip to tilt the bard’s face up, sea-stained eyes reluctantly meeting the lunar ones with trepidation but no small amount of resistance.

Grindelwald chuckled once more, “Still so feisty. I’d wager your brief jaunt has renewed your misplaced resilience. I’m glad that you’ve recovered, Newt,” his brows furrowed as he brushed his free hand along the scar he had left upon Newt’s chest, “though as to the _how,_ I am curious indeed.”

Newt jerked his head from the older man’s grip and glared stubbornly back at him, “Disappointed that you couldn’t swoop in and attempt to play the hero?”

Grindelwald snorted good-naturedly, “Quite." He brushed a hand slowly down the bard’s exposed arm, tracing the lean lines of muscles that resided there, “However, I believe that a correction is in order – as you are aware, your heart was not my intended target,” he leant in closer, face hovering much too close for comfort as he unabashedly inhaled Newt’s scent, “or at least not the target of my blade.”

Newt shuddered but inhaled sharply before leaning down to swiftly scoop up the blade in question from where it had fallen from Graves' slack grip. His grip was not as expert as Graves’ or Grindelwald’s might’ve been, but it was steady despite his slighter frame and weakened state.

Grindelwald’s smile widened, white teeth flashing in the sunlight as Albus waved his hand absently at the drapes, sending them away again as he went to stare out of the far window, eyes tethered to the seemingly endless skyline where it faded into the sea. Newt wasn't sure if the way his former friend and mentor was ignoring him was more or less unnerving than when Albus had him bound, vulnerable and paralyzed, but it still sent a chill up his spine, a creeping unease that settled in his bones as the new perception took hold.

Newt angled himself so that he was standing between the half-conscious Graves and the man who would cause him further harm, though, unfortunately, also placing himself closer to both Grindelwald and Albus. Though, with the weapon in his hand, he felt a bit less defenceless, even if it didn’t actually give him any real advantage.

Grindelwald looked discouragingly at ease, amused even, by Newt’s actions. “Put that down, Ræv, before I have to take it from you.”

“I don’t see why I should when you’ve just admitted that you plan on hurting him with it,” Newt found his voice and it was surprisingly sure as he flicked his gaze toward Graves.

“Well, I would attempt to offer your own wellbeing as motivation enough but judging from experience thus far, you criminally undervalue it.” 

Newt adjusted his grip on the sword and edged back slightly so that his bare foot was nudging Graves’ limp hand and he suppressed a small smile as he felt the brief grip of fingers upon his ankle, just a small squeeze, but enough to reassure him that Graves was both still alive and relatively aware. He couldn’t risk a glance down at this point but that didn’t mean that he was simply going to give in – either to the dark mage before him or to the lethargy that was weighing upon his head and limbs like sand in one’s shoes. Whatever Albus had drugged him with was keenly still in effect and it was all he could do just to stay upright and keep the blade from drooping. He'd need help if he was going to get out of this and judging from the way that Albus was resolutely ignoring the three of them and Graves was barely conscious and bleeding upon the floor at Newt’s feet, he got the feeling that human aid was once again not going to be his salvation.

Nastya was hovering around near the bookcases but Newt didn’t want to risk the young bird – not after having witnessed the mass carnage and injury, however brief it may have mysteriously been, that Grindelwald had wrought upon the bats that had flown to Newt’s aid before. Nastya's flock were nearby, certainly, but there were too few of them to be much help past being sacrificial larks, and Newt refused to condemn any living thing to such a fate. That left Pickett and Nessa and as much as the two of them had proved themselves invaluable in the aftermath of a battle or confrontation, they wouldn’t be much use here and now. Not unless Grindelwald happened to want some wood quality evaluation and was willing to spare Newt and Graves’ lives for the task. And Newt was somewhat doubtful of that outcome. And perhaps just a little bit dazed still – his thoughts seemed to pull him down trivial and somewhat nonsensical paths. Oh dear.

“Dear me, Newton, you don’t seem to be quite yourself. Perhaps whatever hedge wizardry you prescribed yourself didn’t quite do the trick,” Grindelwald commented with a quirked brow before his eyes flickered down to the sword in Newt’s now-shaky hand, “I’d recommend you return that before you do yourself an injury.”

Newt picked up on it then, on the way that Grindelwald seemed so eager for Newt to relinquish the blade even if he was trying to be his usual mocking self – there must be something about this sword that was special enough to worry him. The bard could sense a hum of _wrongness_ about it and he supposed that must be magic and that the blade was enchanted in some way. But then again, it had struck Newt a potentially fatal blow but he was still relatively up and moving. Well, no point in wasting the opportunity, his strength was fading fast and it wouldn’t do to be forced to relinquish his one hope of getting himself and Graves out safely.

Newt swung the blade up in a similar way to how he’d seen Graves do it with Albus and aimed to strike out at the man’s chest area. Grindelwald stepped back swiftly, arms folded behind him in a casual, taunting manner but also one that could’ve been mistaken for defensive. Feeling the thrum of adrenalin in his veins, warm and sharp, Newt swung again, managing to just clip the older man’s hip, barely grazing the leather that covered it, but landing enough of a blow to fuel his attempts further. However, what he hadn’t quite counted on was Albus’ presence -- having hoped that the wizard would keep out of it as he had done up until now – which proved to be a grievous error.

Just as Newt was stepping around Graves’ insensate body to attack in earnest, Albus turned abruptly, almost reluctantly, to face him and though Newt half-heartedly managed to bring up the sword in a defensive motion, he wasn’t able to stop himself from being rocked off his feet. Thankfully, the force that threw him was not as strong or careless as that which had thrown Graves, and though Newt too impacted with the table, he managed to roll over the surface and into the carved wooden chair behind it. He landed harshly, half on top of one of the arms and before he could lever himself upright - or make the world stop spinning -- Newt was flipped once more by magical force and pressed into the seat in a spread-eagled position that only served to expose his inadequately covered form further. 

The bard retained enough mobility to look towards Albus with wide, shocked and slightly pleading eyes that merely seemed to tighten the line of the older man’s bearded jaw before those bright blue eyes turned to Grindelwald, as if in deference.

Grindelwald came to stand before him, hand on his scratched hip and expression almost exasperated but with something much darker and more familiar playing just below the surface. “Now, Newton, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Kindly bugger off and die, Mister Grindelwald,” Newt gritted out, glaring and tugging the invisible force that bound his arms behind the chair, flushing in humiliation as his legs were slowly, tauntingly, drawn apart to be bound to those of the chair and the blanket slipped from its place around his waist as a result.

“So sour, my little Ræv!” Grindelwald laughed delightedly and this time, Newt was not the only one who caught the equally sour look that Albus sent Grindelwald. It was brief, but the dark mage pounced upon it instantly, turning to face his companion with a crooked brow. “And what has my dearest one so distraught? Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

He stepped closer to Albus, half-turning his back on Newt and moving close to the bearded mage with an expression that Newt could only describe as smouldering. Grindelwald turned in such a way that Newt could no longer see his face and could only spy the movement of his shoulders as he reached up to cup Albus’ cheek almost tenderly, even if his voice remained somewhat light and mocking. “Or perhaps it isn’t merely jealousy, is it?” he wheedled, tilting Albus’ head up in a similar way that he had Newt’s, but instead of being repulsed, Albus let out a small shuddering sigh, letting his eyes slip shut as Grindelwald’s fingers furrowed into his greying auburn hair.

Grindelwald leant forward until his lips were hovering mere inches before Albus’, the auburn-haired man's breathing audibly catching as Grindelwald spoke in a carrying whisper, “You didn’t want to share...”

Albus’ eyes flew open and he looked startled, affronted and was it...a touch guilty? Colour flared in his cheeks and Newt shrank back slightly where he was pinned as Albus’ heated gaze slid to him. If only briefly, Newt channelled his anger, humiliation and fear into a fierce glare aimed at his former friend, the hurt of this betrayal cutting deeper than he had expected it to. However, his attention was drawn away from the disturbing sight of his treacherous mentor in the arms of a sadistic rapist when he heard a low, barely stifled groan come from across the room. Newt glanced over and was shocked to see Graves halfway onto his feet, leaning heavily on the table and swaying dangerously but mostly upright and clear-eyed, nonetheless.

“Oh ho! I wondered what it would take to rouse you from your stupor,” Grindelwald crowed, releasing Albus and striding forward to place himself between Graves and Newt. “I would’ve made more of an effort to wake you but I rather have my hands full at the moment, my poor paramours are feeling a bit neglected.” He casually grazed a hand over Newt’s knee and up his exposed thigh as he spoke, the bard closing his eyes tightly for a few brief moments in the hopes of mastering control of his breathing once more. It wasn’t working very well. His legs barely twitched in response to his commands to resist the unwanted touch, Albus’ magic holding strong. Oh, and how very wrong that was in itself.

Albus surprised most everyone in the room then by speaking up for the first time since Grindelwald had initially addressed him, “Not jealous, Gellert, more pitying – you haven’t employed your usual... proven and effective tactics whilst dealing with Newt, and I can’t help but wonder what prompted such carelessness for one so…talented.”

He looked at Newt oddly for a moment before his eyes slid back to meet the eclipse that played across Grindelwald’s pale face. The man’s voice was smooth as it came from his lips but the steel and fire in Grindelwald’s gaze belayed that, “I don’t see how the treatment of my pets is any concern of yours. Did we not agree long ago that you would overlook my...indiscretions, as I would yours?”

Albus’ gaze hardened to meet that of his partner and he took a swift step forward, “And what _indiscretions_ would you be referring to now, Gellert? I have been faithful, have never wanted-" he told a deep breath, “I have never strayed.” He sounded almost strained, the first real crack in his calm exterior. “What is this really about?”

Grindelwald eyed his partner with keen interest and unparalleled insight, “A discussion for later, I believe, Albus, lest the Graverobber decide to make use of his pilfered weapon as he has been sidling closer for some time now.”

Newt’s attention jolted over to where Graves was indeed hovering much closer to Grindelwald than he had before, the sword that Newt had dropped clutched once again in his resolute, white-knuckled grip. His eyes were fixed upon Grindelwald but edged occasionally towards the left and right as he kept subtle tabs on both Newt and Albus. Speech, however, seemed almost beyond him as Graves fought to stay alert but he managed to grind out his words of defiance and warning, “You’re not taking us again.”

“Of course not,” Grindelwald laughed, “I see no reason to allow you the privilege of time to answer my questions before you die – you lost any leniency I may have been willing to show you with your mistreatment of my property and your attacks on myself and Albus.”

“ _Not_ your property,” Newt said firmly, tugging once again on his invisible bonds. “And I won’t let you hurt him.”

He realised the ridiculousness of his attempt at a threatening demeanour even as he spoke and before Grindelwald’s mismatched eyes laughed at him. “Hush now, fiery little thing. I’ll take care of you in good time, but for now, I need to take care of Albus' pest problem.”

Graves looked to be wavering on his feet, determined but able to hold himself and the sword up through sheer force of will against the no-doubt debilitating head wound, not to mention his damaged ribs and wounded leg – even if he did seem to have cared for the latter to some extent. Newt felt his senses throw out to the nearby creatures of their own accord, further than before...out from the tower to the cliffs around it. And that was where he found something he most certainly had _not_ been expecting. A familiar face, or rather the impression of one that touched his senses with undeniable enthusiasm and stiff concern. Dhaval.

The lone fox sent Newt an impression of following a scent from where he had caught it as he travelled the countryside and forest surrounding the city – so full of humans and hate that he knew not to follow _there_ \- and the blur of a journey that followed...scenting Newt’s distress, blood and fear from across the miles in a way that had both disturbed and intrigued the small creature. He tentatively asked why Newt smelt so...harried, like prey, and it was all Newt could do not to cry at the soft concern, the simple, genuine curiosity of one who simply _did not_ and _could not_ understand the sort of pain and danger that was wracking him. That he was indeed prey, just not, perhaps, in the way a fox could understand. Even a fox that had been dedicated and intelligent enough to track him this far.

So, as much as it pained him, he drew himself away from the curious creature, softly telling him to go about his business as he usually would had he not crossed Newt’s path. Dhaval’s answer was a firm yip of denial and he promptly carried on down the hill with the intent of waiting for Newt by the front door to be let in. Newt couldn’t help the slightly hysterical laugh that left him at the creature's sheer stubbornness though the sound was a bit wet as it caught in his throat. It drew odd looks from all in the room except for the Amber-Jay who resolutely went back to ignoring them all in favour of pecking up some woodworm he found along the back of the shelf on which he perched.

Blinking himself back into his own cognisance, Newt fixed his wavering gaze upon where Grindelwald and Graves were almost squaring up to one another – the former clearly wary of the enchanted blade between them even if that wariness seemed dampened slightly by the latter's evident weakness.

It seemed a stalemate that would break the moment that Graves did.

Not even Pickett’s nimble, sharp fingers or Nessa’s sharp legs and pincers could help him here as the bonds were invisible, intangible but for the force with which they pinned Newt to his seat.

“What is it that you’re finding so amusing?” Grindelwald probed, looking only mildly curious and Newt got the feeling that the question was more just to show his lack of deference to the threat the spymaster currently represented.

Graves too, was side-eyeing him with more than a touch of concern and Newt didn’t know how to respond to any of it so averted his gaze downward to stare at his own bare shins, watering eyes losing focus as they traced his own scars. As the quiet stretched on, however, he worked to gain his voice because speaking – however ridiculous the words - was simply easier than the silence in between. He looked to Graves, meeting his steely gaze for a moment and seeing the slight smile the older man gave him before Newt raised his gaze to meet Grindelwald’s as his words grew in strength, “What I’m finding amusing...is the fact that you’re more afraid of the sword that was stolen from you rather than the knife at your back.”

Newt couldn’t repress the smile in his voice as he saw his words come to fruition even before he finished speaking, Graves holding the very blade he had given to Newt at the leather-clad man’s spine, the sword coming round to graze his throat as the dagger pressed into the soft flesh of his back. Newt wasn’t sure how the spymaster had gotten ahold of it as Newt had been rather sure he hadn’t brought in there with him but he wasn’t going to argue the point as Graves quickly turned the situation to his advantage by directing Grindelwald like a human shield toward Albus.

“Let him up.” Graves ordered, his tone broaching precisely no argument, jerking his head imperiously toward Newt and there was but a wave of the bearded mage’s hand before Newt found himself free and able to stand. He did so slowly, pained, and only after quickly scooping up the blanket to cover himself once more, wrapping it tightly around his waist with a shaky hand. The bard staggered slightly as he made his way over to the other side of where Graves stood impressively resolute. Newt moved fast, unsure of how long this burst of energy was going to last.

He couldn’t help but keep his attention fixed at least in part upon Grindelwald, the man’s arms held out to the side, away from both blades and not obviously reaching for anything despite his curling fingers, the man’s eclipsed eyes shining, his jaw set as if in irritation, no, more like concentration…then he caught Newt’s eye and it was then that Newt realised the smile had never left his face.

It was the smile that clued Newt into what was about to happen a second before it did. Still, he managed to leap forward and shove Graves bodily back, causing the stockier man to go careening back down the stairs as his injured leg gave out from under him. Fortunately, the handful of flames that Grindelwald had been about to attack Graves with was extinguished but unfortunately, Graves also lost hold of both his weapons as he fell. Newt rolled away from Grindelwald rapidly, hissing as the abandoned knife caught along his thigh and hip, tearing material and flesh alike, but he managed to scramble away fast enough that Grindelwald’s grasping hand missed him. Newt felt a thrill of hope as he also managed to snag the knife and roll into a crouch, holding it up in defence before him, teeth bared and hair in disarray.

But for the second time that day, Newt failed to consider his actions and all the contributing factors – namely in the shape of Grindelwald’s magic, which succeeded in snaring Newt where Grindelwald’s hands had failed. Something invisible and harsh wrapped around his throat from behind and Newt choked, throat and chest burning as more insidious tendrils of intangible force lashed about his torso, pinning his arms to his chest even as another fireball was conjured to life and hurled across the room. It dissipated swiftly however against the shield that had formed over the stairwell, Graves’s eyes flared furious, flustered and confused as he watched from where he was trapped halfway down the staircase. The air between them shimmered blue and Newt could only imagine that these were the defences that Albus had put in place and that Graves had gotten past earlier. Or maybe stronger ones, given how Graves’ retaliating fireball had disappeared so quickly against them.

There was a look of pain on Graves’ face then and he clapped both hands to his ears as if trying to suppress some ungodly racket that was causing him great discomfort. His eyes darted about almost frantically, likely searching for the source of the noise. Newt could hear nothing unusual but didn’t doubt that whatever magic was affecting Graves could not be good for either of them. Newt choked and coughed as he was dragged back, slowly, inexorably, until his arched back and swimming head hit Grindelwald’s thighs and midriff respectively, his breaths were coming in short, fast and strained and all Newt could focus on were Graves' wide, furious eyes set in that incomprehensible blur of a face that still somehow seemed so very familiar already.

“ _Asterino_ , my fierce bard,” Grindelwald chided, hand weaving into Newt’s curled copper hair and tugging it roughly in a demented sort of massage as his fingers dug into the bard’s scalp. He recognised the foreign word for the chastisement and mockery it was and half snarled, teeth bared as he bucked and threw his head back harshly into Grindelwald’s crotch.

The man let out a sound like a wounded animal and his grip slackened, both in a magical and physical sense and Newt gasped in but a single breath before calling to Graves in a rasping shout, eyes fixed solely upon him, “Go, go now, he shan’t have the both of us, just get out.” When Graves hesitated, eyes crinkled in pain and indecision, Newt lurched forward to the best of his ability with his arms still trapped to his sides and Grindelwald looming so close behind, tightening his grip on the warm hilt in his palm. “Go!”

The spymaster looked at him levelly for a few seconds, dark eyes conveying a promise – a return and a rescue – before he did as instructed and fled the tower. Newt could hear Grindelwald speaking, demanding furious things of his oddly calm and quiet companion and fuming at the turn of events. “Can you not control your own wards, Albus? Are you truly so incompetent? Have you gone so unpractised that you can’t even prevent the likes of _him_ from escaping?”

Newt could practically _hear_ the blank stare being levelled as Albus replied somewhat icily, “Last I checked, Gellert, you were the one with the most powerful magic. I know you claim that a gift such as yours should be rationed for the sake of the artefact, but if you wanted the Graverobber so badly, you could’ve just as easily gotten through my wards yourself.” An almost haughty sniff that sounded more like a sigh, “Besides, I told you before, the wards respond to perceived danger - this level of the tower seals itself off to protect its inhabitants and contents should a threat be detected, the Searing isn’t something that I can control the release of once that happens.”

Newt flinched violently in surprise and sympathy as he heard the sound of a resounding blow that was swiftly followed by the sounds of a man choking and Grindelwald’s hissing voice, “And what is it that has inspired such a burst of insubordination? For years you’ve been secretive – that, so much, I can understand. But over the past few months, you have been... _disloyal_...as much as you claim otherwise.”

“Wha-...h-how?” Albus’ usually smooth speech was ruined by the grip constricting his throat and Newt finally managed to roll himself enough to see what was going on. Grindelwald had Albus pressed against the wall, the spider’s claw wrapped around his throat tight and snarling face inches from the other man’s, the former looking furious in a cold, burning manner and the latter pained in a way past the pressure being exerted upon his throat.

“I know all about your _extracurriculars_ , Albus, and whilst I find it refreshing that you want to...add a little something to your life that takes you away from your studies, I would rather that you didn’t try to keep them all to yourself...”

Grindelwald spun them then, pirouetting in an almost dance-like move, his hand never leaving Albus’ throat as he slammed him down onto the table, leaning over him and pressing their bodies tight together. Something was flashing in those bright blue eyes and Newt found himself meeting them firmly for the first time since the man’s betrayal became so evident. He saw pain there and shame and a hint of defiance but more than anything, Newt saw love in those eyes – love, he could only imagine, that was meant for Grindelwald. It told him more than anything else the mage could’ve said or done, that he didn’t stand a chance in swaying the man from whatever dark path he was on. That he couldn’t convince Albus to help him or to be the man that Newt had so foolishly thought he was. Albus may have felt resentment toward Grindelwald, even anger, but the love, the passion and devotion that Newt saw in his eyes...it was unshakable.

Even the thoughts of the betrayal, however, were shaken from him with force as Grindelwald’s attention snapped back to him, the mage throwing out a hand and causing a pained groan to leave Newt’s lips as he was rapidly dragged forwards across the wooden floor. His bare, thoroughly over-sensitized skin and wounded hip were roughly grated over the boards before he was abruptly lifted to hang in mid-air, his arms were dragged back to be bound at the wrist behind him and his legs were pulled up roughly so that his heels were now tucked into his aching backside. Despair clawed further at him as the knife dropped from his fingers with a resounding clatter to the floor 

It would’ve been an altogether uncomfortable and humiliating position in itself had the blanket then not also dropped free to flop onto the floor below, baring Newt once more and reigniting the ardent flush in his cheeks. He opened his mouth to say something, an outcry, a protest, he didn’t know, but was prevented from uttering a single coherent word when the stray roll of bandages flew through the air and stuffed themselves between his lips, wrapping around his head several times before tying themselves off tightly, gagging him swiftly.

“I also can’t help but wonder how you were able to lure both my escapee pets to you, _or_ why dear Newt seems so trusting of you,” Grindelwald mused. He didn’t release his partner for even a second, though he eased up on the grip enough to reach forward and press a teasing finger to the apex of Newt’s thighs. Newt had to fight not to whimper as the finger brushed over his sensitive, stretched rim, the muscles clenching hopelessly as his thighs were spread wider by Grindelwald’s magic. The finger dipped into Newt’s hole, circling the fluttering inner walls and drawing a low, muffled keen from Newt before it withdrew and was held before Albus’ baffled face. 

“Clean, so you didn’t try to fuck him, but still…” Grindelwald trailed off with a low, thoughtful hum before his grip tightened to iron once more. "Did I give you permission to touch what is mine?"

Newt’s skin crawled and his breathing picked up even as Albus’ expression cleared somewhat, realisation dawning on him even as it was tinged with evident fear, "Gellert, I-"

Grindelwald tightened his grip viciously and Albus was cut off with a choked noise before he shook his head vigorously. Grindelwald then loosened his grip enough for the other man to speak.

"No…"

" _No_ , I didn't. But if you were so keen on playing with my sweet Ræv, you should have just told me -- you know I would deny you little, my love."

Grindelwald pressed his lips to the pinned man’s and they shared a passionate kiss, Albus reciprocating this time, with increasing fervour as if he were being sucked into a whirlpool, waters deep and dark, going deeper with each second, his hands drifting up to grasp Grindelwald’s hips, pulling him closer. Newt was frozen in more than magic, horror and panic clogging his throat at what he was witnessing, confused beyond belief, not sure how he fitted into any of this or what he could do to get out of it. If only he could move, he could use this moment of…whatever in the hells it was…to escape, to follow Graves. But he was stuck, trapped, mute and helpless…just as he always was. 

Albus’ eyes opened again; pupils blown wide in a potent cocktail of things that Newt couldn’t begin to name before fixing upon Newt with new intent over his lover's shoulder. Newt struggled all the more. No, no, no, no, no... this couldn't be happening! Not this. Not him.

“What do you say, Albus? Are you willing to indulge yourself if it means having to share?” Grindelwald whispered the words as his teeth grazed Albus’ ear, breathing out sinfully sweet air into the room so strongly that Newt could smell it from where he hung, trapped and terrified. Albus hesitated, licking his lips as if to catch and keep the taste that lingered there, his whole body flinched and his pupils blew wider before he slowly nodded, mute but eager. Newt strained against his invisible bonds with everything he had, letting out muffled protests as he was lowered down onto the table beside the two men, the room enveloped briefly in a blinding flash of light before he found himself elsewhere.

He was sunk into soft silken sheets, deep crimson swathing him as two bodies pressed against his. Newt’s limbs and mouth were now free but he felt almost as trapped beneath the weight and presence of the two mages as he had by their magic.

“No, no, please don’t-” the bard found his pleas cut off once more but this time by a pair of smooth, cool lips pressing to his own, the sickly-sweet scent of the plant being forced upon him once more and in a small moment of cognition before the sap overwhelmed his senses, Newt realised that _this_ was what had tipped Albus over the edge of acquiescence. It was small comfort though, as he felt his former friend’s hands mapping out the scarred planes of his chest, pinning his arms in place whilst Grindelwald continued to kiss him, hot, open-mouthed, dirty and suffocating.

“Hush now, Ræv, this can be so good for you if you just relax…”

Newt grimaced against the other man’s mouth, roughly jerking his head away and half-burying it in the nearby pillow in favour of prolonged contact with the toxic kiss. “No! Get away me!” He knew that his words would not affect Grindelwald – had never done so before – but he still, despite everything, held out a grain of hope that Albus might be swayed. Even if just a little. Newt tried to meet the bearded man’s gaze, to find some clue as to whether there was any hope, but the elder seemed too preoccupied with the movement of his own hands down Newt’s sides, Albus’ tongue dipping out of swollen lips to taste the sweat beading along Newt’s skin.

He used his newfound freedom from the magic that had held him to struggle for all he was worth, managing to slip off the bed mostly thanks to the slipperiness of the silk and a few well-aimed kicks on his part that resulted in muted grunts from each man. He slid over the smooth floor to a nearby wood-panelled wall that he could barely see in the dim, curtained light of the room, back finding it a cool support and his hands scrabbling for a door or window or _something_...

What he found was nothing more than smooth dark wood panelling the wall and floors as far as his straining eyes could reach. The whole room was shadowed except for the ruddy orange candlelight that illuminated the bed from where Grindelwald and Albus were watching him. Grindelwald was half-naked already, his leather boots and shirt discarded on the floor nearby and trousers tight against the evident bulge of his arousal. Albus had discarded his midnight blue robe but his trousers and a loose white shirt remained. Newt curled his legs into himself in a poor attempt to hide himself but levelled a defiant stare at Grindelwald, almost growling when the man stood from the bed and the mage slowed his pace as he padded barefoot over to crouch before Newt in a move that surprised the bard.

“Shh, shhh, shhhh, you’re alright, you’re safe with us, we're going to take care of you, no need to fear us, little one.”

“I have every need,” Newt denied in a hoarse whisper, eyes wide and roughly furious.

Grindelwald smiled almost sympathetically at him, and it threw the bard off more than anything else, his hand reaching forward to casually brush against Newt’s arm in a way that might’ve passed notice had Newt not been as hypersensitized and twitchy as he was.

“Yes, yes, of course you do, sweet thing. You need to be taken care of, don’t you?” he glanced back over his shoulder at his partner who lounged upon the bed, watching the pair crouched on the floor with a distant sort of anticipation. Newt swallowed, cautiously watching the way that Albus was slowly unbuttoning and shedding his shirt as the bard tried not to shake under Grindelwald’s touch.

“Albus may have been a touch hasty and careless in how he introduced you to our relationship, but do not doubt, little Newt, that he is the one person in this world that I truly cherish and that I would grant him anything he wishes,” Grindelwald’s hand moved up to cup Newt’s cheek, tilting his face up to meet his steady gaze. “Even if that is to share one as precious as yourself.”

“I don’t want to be _shared_ by anyone,” Newt bit out.

“Perhaps not now, but you will learn to love being taken care of just as Albus did. The reason so many of my subordinates seem content in their lot is that they _are_. You are now being presented with an honour that I have offered none before.”

“And I’m supposed to feel grateful, am I? That you’ve abducted me repeatedly and…d-done things to me against my will? That you’ve hurt my friends?” Newt let out a barely-humoured breath of shaky air, jerking back from the touch once more and scrabbling his feet up underneath him until he stood on unsteady legs, Grindelwald following him in a smooth, seamless move. “You stabbed me, for Asha’s sake!”

“Unintentionally,” Grindelwald corrected smoothly, moving to brace Newt again but the bard ducked out of the grip before it made contact, stumbling across the room.

Newt nearly tripped over the discarded items of clothing as he backtracked, trying to find an exit of some sorts but coming up blank. “Stop trying to make this seem reasonable! It's not! Any of it! You’re both bloody mad!” The boy ran a hand agitatedly through his messy copper curls, “Y-you- you drugged me! You drugged him!” Newt cried, gesturing to where Albus was still lounged, so ready, so unlike himself that it set Newt’s teeth on edge. “You’re trying to claim you care for him, but then you use the same dirty tricks on him that you would on anyone else. That doesn’t seem like love to me. Why should I trust anything you say?” 

Grindelwald’s eyes hardened then, all traces of soft coaxing and rationality gone as he surged forward, grasping Newt by the hair and propelling them both backwards until the backs of Newt’s knees hit the bed and they both went tumbling onto it next to where Albus was stretched out. “Don’t think to question my motives, little Ræv. Wilful as you may be, I _won’t_ tolerate it.”

There was no teasing this time as Grindelwald’s fingers found Newt’s hole, forcing his thighs apart with a harsh shove of one knee and the bard flinched as he felt another pair of warm, calloused hands grip his wrists and tug them up to be pinned above his head. Two digits invaded him roughly, thrusting in and scissoring viciously in his loosened hole, filling him in an unfairly satisfying manner. Newt blinked hard against the tears that stung his vision at the flood of sensations that suffused his tingling senses. As much as he wanted to just block it all out, Newt continued to struggle, pulling against the hold on his wrists, though this merely made the grip tighten, and throwing his knees and feet repeatedly against the man currently fingering him. After a scant few minutes of this, Grindelwald grew impatient as the struggles hindered his explorations and he backhanded Newt swiftly across the face, following up with a flick of the hand that resulted in familiar silver chains appearing from thin air and lashing themselves around his wrists in place of the Maor’s hands.

The bonds drew Newt upwards, the other end of the chain wrapping around a high beam on the four-poster bed and winching the bard up until he was knelt precariously upon it, stretched out like meat on a rack but still able to rest some of his weight upon his knees even as it strained him. The chains continued to twine down his arms, wrapping more loosely around them as they descended in a twining pattern to encompass his shoulders. They stopped moving once they had both trapped and formed a support for his arms and shoulders but Newt didn’t have it in him to feel grateful for the brace as Grindelwald moved before him once more.

He leaned close, lips hovering inches before Newt’s face and smoky lids half-lowered across eclipsed eyes, “Why do you fight me so? There’s nothing wrong with enjoying yourself or being enjoyed by others, now is there? It seems to me that you have a soft spot for Albus, and I can’t say I blame you. He can be a touch difficult at times, but once he gets going-” a wicked, awful smile curled pale lips, “Oh, it’s quite the thing to behold…”

He caught Albus by the arm and drew him around so he too knelt before Newt, bright blue eyes glazed but focussed, mainly upon Grindelwald but with skating interest towards Newt as well. Newt licked his lips and swallowed, looking carefully at Albus as he prepared to try something that could quite spectacularly backfire.

“Albus, think about this, please, he’s manipulating you – Grindelwald drugged you with that plant sap of his, it's messing with your head. You don’t really want to be doing any of this, do you?”

Albus looked at him, head tilting slightly, brows furrowing a fraction, lips parting wordlessly, as if trying to remember something or-

Grindelwald intercepted the eye contact between them by surging forwards and capturing Albus’ lips in another fierce kiss and Newt sagged slightly in his bonds as he realised that as long as Grindelwald was there, he had practically no chance of getting through to his former friend. He just couldn’t quite accept the idea that someone he had held in such high regard for so long – even at more of a distance than he would have perhaps previously liked – was now taking part in his abject humiliation and things that the bard didn’t even want to consider. Not to mention the notion that he had misjudged the man so massively that he had had no idea that he was the devoted partner of a sadistic megalomaniac.

The feelings he’d had in his adolescence, the silly affection and admiration for the handsome, caring, understanding and brilliant older man, they stung almost as keenly as the apprehension of what Grindelwald had planned for both of them. 

Grindelwald released Albus after an indeterminate amount of time, twisting back to Newt and coming in to claim his lips in a similarly fierce motion, one hand holding him steady, keeping his mouth open and digging his thumb into the hinge of his jaw to prevent the younger man from biting down. Newt could taste the traces of the other man past the taste of Grindelwald and the sickly sweetness, could pick up on the edging of bitter tea, old parchment and fresh thyme that reminded him of his younger years and the connection he had had with Albus Dumbledore as he had known him, or thought he had. But for the current circumstances, it may as well have been poison on his tongue. Grindelwald’s fingers traced his rim again, the other hand cupping his hip and brushing over the curve of his arse as Albus came up behind him to mouth at the dark mage’s bare shoulder.

“Will you sing for us, my pretty bard? Will you scream out our names so sweetly? I think you will, won’t you?” Grindelwald breathed the words against Newt’s lips, his fingers finally finding the bard’s prostate and playing him like the instrument that Newt found himself missing quite keenly at that moment. If only to cover up the unwanted sounds and evidence of his own arousal. With how open he already was, with how long he’d been stretched around the shifting, ever-changing plug and how deep Albus’ fingers must’ve dug into him to pull it out, Newt could barely even clench in an attempt to keep the man out. Couldn’t stop the two, then three fingers sliding in and out of him at a rapid place or how they curled inside him and tapped out a perfect, awful, teasing rhythm upon that little point that seemed to become the centre of his entire bloody being. It was awful, but Newt couldn’t stop the way his hips bucked into every movement, his knees giving out just that little amount to sink into that blissful contact.

Grindelwald was smiling. Smirking. Of course he was. He was getting just what he wanted – sandwiched between two drugged, bodily eager men who were at his disposal, willing or otherwise. The mage removed his fingers from Newt to grasp gently but firmly, coaxingly, at Albus' hands from where they had slid down to help Grindelwald rid himself of his tight leather trousers. Their lips met over Grindelwald’s shoulder again in another deep kiss, Albus' eyes having long since drifted closed in a blissful haze and Grindelwald’s alit with satisfaction and arousal and perhaps a hint of daring. Likely thrilled on some narcissistic level on just how well his manipulations were working out for him.

Newt’s breath hitched in a tight sob, stuck hard in his chest and throat, as the black leather slid down Grindelwald’s thighs and down past his knees, the bard forcing himself to look away, to escape his situation in any way he could, even as he felt the hot, thick proof of his situation pressed against him. His chin was caught again, Grindelwald looking deep into his eyes as he drew ever closer and Newt fought hard not to tremble harder at the intensity that lay there in that eclipsed gaze – the lingering remnants of memories that, whilst being mere days and hours old, felt so very far away. So very long ago. Gods, had it only been days since he met the man currently trapping him in a living nightmare? It felt like years, decades, aeons. Like Grindelwald was an infinite force, not to be stopped or quantified. Like there would never be a moment without _him_. The way that his influence and their paths had intertwined long before now through Albus...it all felt inevitable and inescapable. And that terrified Newt more than he knew how to cope with.

Albus was there too, suddenly, pushing past his partner but being allowed to do so, encouraged, if Grindelwald’s widening smirk was any gauge. The bard let out a gasping breath, eyes flying wide as the chains supporting him suddenly released their pulling pressure, letting him flail momentarily and fall backwards to bounce once upon the soft mattress before he was being dragged back again, arms stretched out to each post and bound there. He let out a low moan, desperate and scared, as more metal appeared from nowhere, snaking its way from Grindelwald’s hands as they moved as if pulling invisible threads through his fingers and formed themselves into two vice-like devices with long chains attached to them – not so dissimilar to the ones that had adorned Newt before Albus removed them. It seemed that the reprieve was only temporary however, the harsh little clamps soon closed about the rosy pink buds once more, not even easing into the pressure as scorching fire consumed him. The clamps continued to pull, the chain between him and the canopy above shortening until Newt was forced to follow the pressure, the grip on his sore nipples agonising as they were drawn out from his body in a way they were never meant to be. He cried aloud, tears stinging his eyes as the sensitive flesh was tortured with the strain of pressure-pleasure, he kicked his legs up beneath him, desperately trying to ease that strain, forced to arch his back unnaturally as the chains and clamps secured him in that awful, aching position and he _keened_. 

The position left him more vulnerable than ever, his legs spread wide across the bed to the other two men, practically presenting his loose, achingly empty hole as he struggled to keep upright, each tug and slip on his poor nipples already utter agony. The pain-pleasure worsened all the more by the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to hold the position for long, soon he would fail and fall and be introduced into a whole new world of hurt. His body bucked, both with the strain and his sobs as he felt the rough, scratchy hairs of Albus’ beard brush along his chest as the man’s tongue dipped out to taste the tortured bud. Grindelwald’s comparatively smooth and cool hands caressed the curve of his hip, feeling the shuddering skin and jumping muscle that fought to keep his hips and chest elevated. Spiderlike fingers found the fresh wound there, nails digging in and drawing more whimpering sounds of inarticulate distress from the bard, though Newt had his eyes pressed tight shut by this point, he heard the sounds of low hums and sucking sounds as Grindelwald tasted the coppery tang of the bard’s blood, licking it from his own skin with sounds of apparent relish. The fingers returned for more before a sharp slap across his arse had Newt jerking like a puppet on its strings and his eyes flew open to focus blearily upon Grindelwald’s bright, bright eyes.

“Stay with us now, Newt, almost time for the main event.”

An odd sense of calm eclipsed his panic then, cool depths slipping over his head and the leaden feeling thing dipped in a movement that wasn’t quite a nod but wasn’t a denial either. His posture remained rigid – had to in order to support the clamps’ unrelenting tug on him – but something in him sagged, gave in to the need that was itching and aching at him. Gave in to the toxins submerging his senses and the chaos in his bloodstream. He wasn’t escaping this time. Pickett and Nessa were in the tower observatory still, so far away it felt like, and he could sense no one nearby at all, let alone someone who would be willing or able to help him. It was such a strange and awful thing to be disconnected from the nature and wildlife he had always sought – subconsciously or not – to surround himself with and he hated the feeling of having it ripped from him now, when he needed a kind presence more than ever before. Just _something_ to abate the sting of terror and betrayal. But instead, there was nothing. 

When Grindelwald kissed him this time, he sighed out his resistance into the kiss, not quite returning it but not fighting it either, and soon his lips began to tingle, the contact feeling warmer than before. More pleasant, even as nothing on the surface changed. He could feel himself breaking into that kiss but also felt an easing, the constant struggle to resist slipping away as he let the purely physical sensations take hold and gently wash away his fear and stubbornness.

Newt knew it was wrong, but it felt so much easier this way. Couldn’t think of a time when it wouldn’t. Graves wasn’t here to help him. He shouldn’t be relying so much upon the kindness...or otherwise...of near-strangers.

So he let that place take him. The place where the smoke and stifling air grew thick and heady around him. The place where everything was simpler and even when things hurt, he could still focus upon the pleasure as well.

For instance, the searing pleasure as a pair of soft warm lips wrapped around his barely half-hard cock. He bucked again, writhing but not quite having the courage or inclination to look down and look at the man who was suckling at him quite so enthusiastically. He didn’t need the reminder of conflict – to think of how the person caressing his inner thighs so gently and taking him in so expertly, was also not here entirely of his own volition...even if it were in drastically different circumstances to himself. Even if Albus was apparently in love with the man magically influencing his thoughts and actions.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Gellert smirked, feeling satisfaction deep in his gut as he watched his pretty, petulant bard fall. Despite the boy’s best efforts, he buckled under the strain of keeping his chest arched up in such a thoroughly unnatural position, the redhead forced to give in to the pressure and Gellert’s whims.

Newt screamed, long and loud, tears streaming down his prettily flushed cheeks, the clamps pulling his abused, tender nipples into sweet little teats, stretching them out as the clamp’s teeth grated against the sensitive buds...before the pressure eventually released as the clamps slid off with a no-doubt stinging and wrenching finality. The tips of the boy’s nipples were swollen now, red and sore, the places where the piercings had once gone through pricked open anew and dribbling warm streams of blood down his chest and sides. The syrupy sap in the air that filled them all alighting each to better share that pleasure, tormenting their senses anew as every receptor drank in the pain eagerly and sent it straight to aching members. It was a sinful kind of unity that was yet another reason why Gellert loved his little pet and the heady concoction it produced for him.

The bard slumped back into the soft support of the bed – seemingly grateful for once - Albus following him dutifully down, taking his cock to the hilt and sucking him to completion as the boy lay agonized and soon spent upon the bloodied silk sheets. But this was just the beginning of what Gellert had planned for the three of them. He would take his fill of the bard, unite them and share his pretty little prize with Albus so that the two auburn-haired beauties might feel fulfilled and sated enough for Gellert to continue his work on both of them. With them...what a pretty pair they’d make beside him, beneath him, on top of each other.

Gellert orchestrated the chains to his will once more, this time dragging the limp and mostly pliant bard’s limbs together behind him, binding his legs up so that his feet lay folded against the soft curve of his pert little arse. The hands, however, he left to Albus, watching with mild amusement and an old affection as his partner gently caressed the soft skin of the boy-bard's wrists, finding his pulse-point and massaging it until the younger man relaxed just that little bit more into the cushions below him. A soft, stuttering sigh drawn from those sweet, swollen lips as Albus' hand ran through his hair, tugging ever so softly on the curled copper strands and brushing them away from where they clung sweatily to their boy's forehead. It surprised Gellert further to hear Albus speak for the first time since they had entered the room and since he had been plied with Gellert’s little cocktail. His partner whispered soft words as he bound the bard’s wrists, carefully but inescapably with chains that turned to silken rope beneath the weaker mage’s hands, binding them behind his back to rest just above his battered, bruised feet.

“You're so beautiful, Newt, you know that, don’t you? You always have been. So very pretty and bright and caring, and I wish ever so terribly that I hadn’t waited so long to do this...such a beautiful creature...put me to shame...” his mumbling murmurs trailed off as the sap surged within him again and Gellert began to stroke himself languidly as he watched his paramour lean in to claim the bard’s lips for his own over the bard’s shoulder, no doubt giving Newt a taste of his own release, and both moaned softly into the kiss. The magic and arousal were now too potent to be resisted by either.

Grindelwald, for once, contented himself with listening rather than interjecting, as he couldn’t help but feel some intrigued satisfaction at hearing the unfiltered, albeit muddled thoughts of his partner. Albus was his, he truly was and Gellert knew it, but he also knew that the man kept things from him – things like the existence of this beautiful, ethereal boy and all the unchartered gifts he held. For years, it seemed, since the bard’s earlier youth. And that in itself warranted a little punishment for the both of them. Though Gellert could not find it in himself to be utterly cruel to either, offering pleasure and an easement of the physical strain along with his teasing torments.

However, his contentedness to listen instead of intervening did not extend to his physical participation. Oh, not at all. Gellert moved in, his length heavy and throbbing between his thighs as he came to claim his prize. He stroked both hands along the boy's deceptively slender, strong thighs and ran a careful finger along the line of his crack, teasing and singing away the minimal fuzz of golden hair as he found it, burning it away as he had before with the boy’s face and leaving smooth, delicious, lightly freckled skin. Newt’s hole was loose and open and Gellert took immense pleasure in finally kissing the tight furl of it with the leaking head of his cock, reaching forward to brace one hand on the bard’s scarred shoulder, digging his short nails in just slightly before he thrust forward. Newt gasped, arching as best he could against his restraints but Gellert was pleased to note that his eyes remained open and comprehending even if they shone a bit too brightly in the dim light of the room, the sea-stained quality tinted a ruddier hue by the candlelight. A brief thought that the boy could be calling upon his burgeoning powers occurred to the older man then but he pushed it to the back of his mind and instead pushed _into_ his bard. The tight, warm heat that engulfed him and the thrill of being Newt’s first was enough to have Gellert pausing, closing his eyes momentarily and taking in a few deep breaths as he acclimatised to the unparalleled feeling of _finally_ being inside this stubborn, brilliant, beautiful boy. Once he had better control of himself, he thrust his hips forward experimentally, drawing a low grunt that sounded more like an animal whimper, from the redheaded bard. “My little Ræv purrs just as sweetly as I expected you to.”

He thrusts again, teasingly along just where he knew the boy’s prostate to be and was rewarded with another one of those sweet, stubborn sounds, the bard bucking beneath him, a small sniffling sound escaping him this time too. It barely sounded like words but Gellert leant closer to better hear whatever the younger man was mumbling, tilting his head up by a fist full of copper curls as he did so, his fingers meeting where Albus' had been carding through the unruly strands in a soothing gesture. Gellert joined their hands there, threading through the worn, warm hands, stroking over the precious carved metal band there and using their combined grip to keep the bard’s head up closer that his words were no longer mumbled into the plentiful silk-covered pillows.

“Do speak up, Newton, what did I tell you about not being ashamed of yourself?” Newt tried to turn his face back into the comfort of the mattress but the grips on his head did not allow it and he instead swallowed, a jerky bobbing movement of his throat as he raised half-lidded eyes to gaze at somewhere about Gellert’s left ear.

A little more coaxing was needed it seemed, Gellert resisted the urge he felt to begin hammering into the bard as his arousal demanded him to and instead stroked a thumb softly over the corner of the boy’s lips, “You have such a pretty voice, you should better learn to use it...” he let the words hang in the air like a bated hook and smiled just a little as it was taken.

“Please...just take me back...the smoke’s too thick here...Pickett can’t stand it...” Gellert’s eyebrows rose and he instinctively glanced over at Albus whose glazed eyes were narrowed slightly, as if trying to reach the edge of some better comprehension. Well, he couldn’t have that. Still, Gellert found himself once again intrigued by the bard’s oddly nonsensical ramblings, keen to dig out the truth of the matter as he had before, but now was neither the time nor circumstance. Instead, Gellert pulled his partner in for another kiss, chasing away the traces of pesky remembrance with a good dose of the sap and smiling as the years and secrets between them melted away into that carnal simplicity once more.

Albus took control of Newt’s head then, tugging it up solely into his weathered grip before manoeuvring himself to kneel in front of the bard, flushed hard length hovering before the boy’s glazed eyes and Gellert could swear he saw another glimmer of tears sheen those tainted sea depths as he looked upon his former friend and newfound lover. Both of Albus’ hands gently took Newt’s face, thumbing over his cheekbones and pressing forward until Newt had no choice but to take him in. Gellert watched, fascinated, as the boy’s eyes remained open though they slipped from focus but he did not bite down or attempt to fight the intrusion. Whatever relationship existed between the two was discouraging the younger man from resisting Albus in the same way he had Gellert – it was intriguing, but Gellert found his interest fading into the background as his own need spiked. Watching the boy take Albus’ cock was more than enough to flare his arousal anew.

Gellert started at a steady pace, nudging the boy’s prostate on every other thrust, taking his time to enjoy the unresisting soft heat engulfing his cock, the way that the bard’s arse just took everything eagerly, seeming to cling to his length and encouraging it back in every time. The malleable muscles yielded to him just as the boy himself did, or rather, to Albus, it seemed, as he took the hazed man’s cock with no trouble at all, the sap easing his mind and muscles until swallowing down the older man’s length wasn’t the tricky task it should have been for a beginner. Whilst Gellert knew that the boy had the makings of an excellent pet, he knew that to properly train that loyalty in, a relationship much first be established – clear expectations of rewards, obedience and punishment wherever necessary...or simply desired. Newt was getting there, but he was still too headstrong to quite fit into Gellert’s plans for him, the attempts to escape, fight and also fraternise with Gellert’s enemy – a lowlife thief at that! – No, this must be a lesson for the bard as much as it would pleasure himself and Albus. The boy had to learn that his resistance was something that was allowed and humoured by Grindelwald but only in moderation. Stunts such as those he had pulled thus far were unacceptable and Newt had to learn so.

The thought of the Graverobber touching his bard stirred a wave of roiling anger in him, his thrusts becoming faster and he deliberately aimed for the boy’s sweet spot, hammering hard and smirking as Newt choked momentarily upon Albus, his eyes watering and spilling over, the pearlescent drops streaming down Albus' hands as they continued to guide and caress the bard’s face. Albus' voice was almost as choked as he drove his length deeper, the tip of it bulging the bard’s talented throat. “You feel so good, Newt, you’re doing so well...amazing, amazing boy...”

Newt made a soft noise in the back of his full throat, twitching slightly in his bonds as if wanting to move, to do something to resist other than struggling blindly and, curious, Gellert waved a hand at the bonds surrounding the bard’s arms, releasing him. The sudden freedom took both Newt and the man plundering the wonders of his mouth by surprise and though Newt’s arms immediately fell to his sides from where they had been pinned at his back, he did not at first move them past that incidental flop. Albus paused in his thrusts, withdrawing to only be filling the boy’s mouth and azure eyes focussed upon Gellert in evident expectation – waiting for instruction as any good partner should.

Gellert, however, merely watched the bard and was not disappointed as Newt levered himself up awkwardly, his legs still bound, and speared from both ends by sizable cocks, the sight was almost as amusing as it was arousing until Newt slid back so that Albus’ erection barely grazed his lips. He took in deep, slightly shaking and rough sounding breaths, before taking the tip of Albus' arousal into his mouth, suckling sweetly upon the head and keeping eye contact with the man above him the entire time as he sucked him in. A choked curse left his partner’s lips and Gellert himself could deny his arousal no longer, hammering in earnest and feeling his peak draw near as Newt’s cheeks hollowed around the cock in his mouth. Taking Newt’s perfect arse and feeling it suck him in like it was made to do so was one thing but to watch as the boy willingly sucked down his lover...it was something else entirely.

Gellert didn’t even have it in himself to be suspicious as he climaxed, thrusting deep one last time before withdrawing and painting both of the other men in his release. Albus followed not long after, not being able to resist the perfectly imperfect suction that Newt was so sweetly offering – likely in a way that was even better than when Gellert had had him. As delicious as it had been to feel the bard choking around him, to feel his throat muscles tightening around his cockhead and the boy's tongue lashing against him...he couldn’t help but feel some degree of jealousy that Albus had been the first to get the boy-bard to suck him down like that.

With that thought in mind, Gellert tugged the bard back from where he was about to swallow down the last of Albus' come, letting the remainder splatter across the bard's face, neck and chest as the chains binding the bard’s legs fell away too, leaving him pliant and malleable to pull back into Gellert’s lap. The mage hissed lowly as the boy’s arse brushed over his sensitive, spent cock but another dose of the sap worked from the power of his Hallow’s effects had them both hard again in under a minute. Newt whined low and rough in his throat as Gellert wrapped one strong arm across his chest, pulling him back against Gellert’s stouter frame so that he could better whisper in the bard’s ear as he guided his length back to Newt’s wet, stretched hole, impaling him swiftly and drawing more sweet sounds from the boy in his lap. 

“You feel so good, darling boy, but I can’t help but feel a little hurt that you were so much sweeter with Albus than you were with myself...what’s prompted such tenderness, I wonder?”

Newt tried to remain silent but the continuous fucking into his sensitive little hole had him gasping out his answers soon enough, “D-didn’t want to-...ah! Didn’t want to h-hurt him...”

“Oh, but I think it was a bit more than that,” Gellert pressed, reaching around to play with the bard’s pretty, rosy nipples, circling one with damp fingertips and smiling into the boy’s neck at the soft gasping moans it drew from him. “You like him, don’t you? Have a long-held soft spot for him, perhaps? Were you sweet on him?” Gellert looked ahead to fix his mismatched, intense stare upon Albus' bright blue one, smiling triumphantly, goadingly at him, “And was it requited?” The mage reached over, gripping Albus tight by the back of the neck and pulled him forward so that his paramour was pressed chest to chest with Newt, the bearded man gasping for breath against the bard’s shoulder and inches from Gellert’s face. “Tell me honestly, Albus, don’t you want him? Would you like to share properly?”

Albus regarded him with admirable caution considering his hazed state before he nodded slowly, lips parting and blue eyes sparkling in a way that Gellert had not seen in years. Whatever was between the two men, was igniting an older passion in Albus that served to excite Gellert in turn, the sap’s potency aside, his cock twitched within the bard, his hips jerking forward in a way past conscious intent. Newt whimpered, head falling back against Gellert, his soft copper curls brushing against the mage's face and Gellert hummed softly into them in response.

“P-please...”

“What is it, sweet thing?” Gellert probed and though Newt continued to bounce on Gellert’s cock in a limp, accepting manner even as he tensed in pain as much as he was able, he spoke fervently still.

“Stop, he d-doesn’t care...” he sucked in a shuddering breath, “you making us do this isn’t going to p-punish him like you t-think it will...”

Gellert froze at the words for a moment, taking in the fact that the bard was tenacious and coherent enough to make such an observation, an attempt to reason, as Newt would no doubt see it. But then Gellert leant forward, pressing his nose against the hollow of the bard’s throat, inhaling the scents of sweat, release, tension, lust, pine woodsmoke and fear, hummed softly against that silk soft, freckle-kissed skin and laughed.

“This isn’t a punishment, sweet one, this is a reward – for Albus, at least. For you, it is more a lesson, but, nonetheless, you are still being honoured. Never before have I sought to invite anyone to join our shared bedchamber, and I implore you not to waste this privilege. I’m not merely offering you affection but companionship, tutelage at our sides and, in time, trust, should you earn it,” He gave the words time to sink in, pressing a line of kisses across the back of Newt’s ear, along the shell of it and down to meet the scars that wrapped his shoulders, feeling the boy shudder, shake and eventually deflate before he spoke again. “Now be a good boy and take us both, will you? I think you’ll enjoy the challenge.”

Newt looked stunned, wretchedly, deliciously hazed and didn’t seem to quite understand what was going to happen until Albus was crowding his front once more, pressing tighter to the bard as he guided his once again hard cock to Newt’s already occupied hole. Newt shook his head then vigorously, renewing his attempts to struggle away from both men, pushing and pulling and writhing futilely but finding himself pinned between the two as Albus began to push in alongside Gellert’s considerable length.

“No, no, no, please, I can’t-...just stop-...PLEASE!”

The last word morphed into a scream that was quickly muffled as the boy-bard's tear-stained face fell forward onto Albus' shoulder; he buried his face in the man’s neck and almost nuzzled as he tried to adjust to the two lengths splitting him open.

“There now, darling, isn’t that better to soothe on than your fist or your sweet little scarf?” Gellert teased breathlessly as he watched the bard’s mouth work slickly against hot flesh to muffle his own cries, the older man laughing as he received no reply other than the boy’s eyes slipping closed once again. “You were just made for this, weren’t you, little one?”

Newt seemed nonsensical once more as the two men began to thrust in tandem, working their way into the bard and creating delicious friction and tight heat between them as they did so. Gellert was in heaven, the pleasure and pressure on his throbbing cock divine and the way Newt was mouthing at Albus' neck as his partner gripped one hand on Newt’s hip whilst the other clenched upon Gellert’s...it was perfection.

Newt’s voice was weak and his sobs quieter as his strained throat seemed close to giving out, “Please...please, Albus, please just make it stop...”

And that was the moment that those bright blue eyes cleared, fixing right upon Gellert’s with dawning horror and rage.


	14. Chapter 14

_“Please...please, Albus, please just make it stop...”_

The words jarred him, struck a chord within him that brought reality back with an unrepentant crash.

Coming back to one's senses in the midst of breaking another apart was most certainly not something Albus had ever intended to experience. To feel that searing flash of recognition and coherence overwhelm him as he was thrusting into a man he considered a friend...someone he cared for dearly...it was horrifying. He froze the second that cognisance returned to him properly, gasping in air, covered in sweat and come and shivering in pent-up arousal, exhilaration and shame…

And then he couldn’t move fast enough.

Couldn’t pull himself out of and away from the abused boy in his and Gellert’s laps fast enough. But move he did, he scrambled back, his aching cock snapping back to his stomach he pulled out so rapidly, spurting his release over himself even as horror clogged his throat. The thrill of the release and the freshly raw sensation of being inside the warm, tight body of the beautiful young man before him, to be fucking him alongside Gellert…it was all washed away by the harsh sting of the moral implications of what he had done. Of what he had been most assuredly _enjoying_ …

It was made worse as Newt fell forward with him, the boy landing limply upon Albus where he had thrown himself back across the bedclothes. Gellert, too, had slipped free. He had not attempted to catch Newt as he collapsed and it was under some strange instinct that Albus pulled Newt forward to cradle the limp form of the bard against his chest. Bare skin to bare skin; scarred, freckled and pale pressed to tanned skin scruffed with light auburn hair. Newt seemed barely conscious now and damp trails were leaking down his legs from his abused hole as well as from the numerous wounds coating the boy. Albus had to force his breathing to slow at the thought that much of the blood, saliva and come soaking Newt had been his doing. Oh Thyniet, what had he _done_?

He turned his accusatory glare onto Gellert who was milking the last of his own arousal by hand, spilling over Newt once more, groaning gutturally as he did so, his release shooting out to paint the insides of bard’s thighs. Albus’ disapproving, horrified stare deepened, his breathing coming as deep and smooth as he could manage. As much as he wanted to retaliate, he could not undo months, years and decades of work now by revealing his true intent. No matter how devastating Gellert’s latest exploits may be.

“Gellert…what in the name of sanity possessed you...?” he couldn’t quite word the full extent of his dismay without simply screaming at the man and Gellert’s reaction was decidedly unsurprising to someone who knew him as intimately as Albus did as he moved forward, evidently keen to continue his cruel game in fucking the boy curled insensate in Albus’ arms.

“You might do better to ask what possessed both of us, my love,” Gellert teased, grin utterly unrepentant, but the look that Albus levelled his way must have suitably convinced him that now was not a time for his usual drollness.

“I damn well know what affected me, you swore you would stop using that after the last time – it is dangerous to use that sap in such high, protracted quantities. Just think of what it has done to your workers.”

It was almost worryingly easy to refer to Gellert’s considerably less savoury behaviours in such a way – as if he didn’t find raping and enslaving people detestable. It was a façade long honed and he knew he wore it well – had he not, Gellert would not have hesitated to expel him from his favour. Though the man he loved had many layers, Albus knew that Gellert was above almost all else, a fickle and obsessive thing. His newfound fascination with Newt was evidence enough of that, and whilst Albus knew his own relationship with Gellert to be entirely unique, he did not doubt that the passionate element of it had faded with the years, the distance between them and Gellert’s penchant for the new, unique, fascinating and powerful. And unfortunately, Newt was all those things. 

“Now, now, it was just a taste, you can’t pretend you weren’t enjoying yourself,” Gellert replied, his captivating eyes indicating downward at where Albus’ only-so-recent arousal was accidentally pressed against Newt’s thigh from the position he’d pulled the young man into. The bearded man averted his gaze and repositioned the bard so that he was lying upon the pillows beside him instead and then pulled up the silken sheets to cover the abuse done to him – as if it could be erased so easily.

Newt was pale, pliant and utterly malleable, but his eyelids were fluttering slightly, as though he was not quite awake but not completely out of it either. Albus couldn’t say he was surprised after what the boy had been through – after what he and Gellert had put him through – but he pressed shaking fingers to Newt’s throat to check his pulse all the same and felt relief flood through him as he felt a rhythm there, quick but mostly steady. As steady as could be expected given the circumstances. His breathing was strained but, again, the exertion, stress and strangulation, as well as the dehydration Newt was suffering could account for this. Albus couldn’t help but feel morbidly grateful that the plug that had been kept in Newt so long had allowed for the double intrusion without too much damage occurring physically. One small relief.

Part of Albus wanted to keep checking upon Newt’s physical maladies simply as a way to divert his mind, to give his shaking hands something to do other than fist his own cock and carry on fucking the younger man as his lingering arousal and the ebbing effects of the drug wanted him to. It was with a steely determination that he resisted the urge and turned to face Gellert across the bed, placing himself between his partner - the man who had orchestrated this torment - and the abused bard. “This…was out of line, Gellert, even for you.”

“How so?”

Albus stood, scooping up his starred blue robe and draping it about himself, tying the sash loosely but with an angry knot as he faced Gellert where he lounged upon the bed but still kept himself close to Newt’s prone form.

“Thus far in our relationship, you and I have set and adhered to boundaries to our mutual benefit – you can carry on with your sexual and political exploits as you see fit, providing they do not interfere with my own work and in return, you give me time to continue my travels and research with some degree of privacy.” He folded his arms across his chest, regarding Gellert as the paler man sighed, sliding his leather trousers from where they had been discarded upon the floor and beginning to lazily half-fasten them over his now dormant cock. “Newt is a part of what you so often glibly refer to as ‘my stretch of the map’ – I have been developing ties with him and the family he lived with for over two decades and you bringing him to Nurmengard then coercing him into a prominent position between you and the Graverobber and now… _this_ , it is too far.”

“You are worried your work with the boy will be undone? You know that can be fixed quite easily, my dear Albus,” Gellert rolled off the bed onto his feet, the air between his fingertips glowing once more by way of the Spindle that allowed him such great power and his prowess in the field of memory alteration. Albus shook his head, moving between the two once more and Gellert lowered his hands, giving Albus a knowing, patient look that was his way of implying he wanted the whole truth or else he was liable to do something dangerous and impulsive. 

Albus sighed and relented a little, not intending to relinquish the whole truth – nowhere near, of course, but enough to hopefully placate his partner. “I don’t want his mind tampered with, Gellert. From what you told me of his…resistance to your abilities prior, we can’t be certain how he might react to it.”

“And is that all?” Gellert’s gaze was shrewd as he stepped closer, shrewder than usual, which was an achievement in itself.

Albus raised his chin, blue eyes meeting mismatched ones with practised ease. Gods, he could remember a time when he could get lost in those stunning eyes with little fear of spilling his innermost secrets. He missed it. “What do you mean?”

“There’s evidently a reason you protest so much to the boy’s involvement and I’m merely curious as to what that might be.” He said silkily.

“I told you-” Albus began, but Gellert shook his head, as if disappointed, hand rising to silence him in gesture and the fingers held aloft curled into themselves, toying with his own band as his gaze diverted downward, darkened lids lowered. 

“You have told me the surface truth, the truth you think I will find most palatable, but with this, with him-” a jerk of his head towards Newt, whose head had twisted to the side in his unconscious state, buried into the pillows as his brows furrowed, his forehead creased and lips parted as he panted in anguished almost-sleep. “-I would rather you told me all.”

To anyone else, the words would not have sounded like a threat, would have sounded almost reasonable, calm and collected, but this kind of rage – Gellert’s current temperament – it was the quiet and dangerous kind that resulted in much worse than threats of violence or petty strangulation ever could. He needed to proceed with caution. “I…discovered Newt in his youth, when he was perhaps ten years old, and very quickly surmised that he had untold potential, a Gift with creatures and the natural world that was unique and warranted further investigation. It was fortunate that the Lestranges were a family I needed to assure ties with anyway so visiting the boy throughout his youth did not come as a difficulty or interfere with my various endeavours.”

“And you did not think to alert me of someone with so much potential?” Gellert's expression was caustic as his lips thinned and brows rose.

“I wanted to see how his abilities would progress naturally without interference or overt guidance.”

 _And wanted to keep him away from you and your propensity to groom and pursue vulnerable individuals,_ he added silently

“And your personal interest in him?” Gellert pressed, and Albus shifted on his feet just slightly, enough for his bare skin to make that distinctive sound that drew Gellert’s keen eyes. He cocked a sculpted pale eyebrow.

“I couldn’t help but be...drawn in by his...intriguing personality, he was-... _is_ , a very compelling individual,” Albus admitted, albeit a tad stiltedly and Gellert nodded, smiling softly as if he understood and whilst it irked him, Albus smiled back.

“He is that, indeed, though I still find myself curious as to what has you so...rattled by being allowed the chance to get a taste of him?”

Albus stepped forward, reaching forward and gripping Gellert’s wrist, pulling his hand forward to grasp it surely, “I just don’t want to be exposed to that toxin, never have done; you know that, but I also don’t want to risk turning Newt away from us by treating him more roughly than seems necessary.” He forced himself to look at Gellert earnestly but with the common coolness that resided between them when speaking of more intellectual matters, “I think we have established that his powers fluctuate and are primarily instinctive – creatures of all kinds react to him protectively and preferentially but I think that provoking him to get a more dramatic response is not the way to train his gift.” He looked to the restless boy on the bed thoughtfully, “I think that he is learning his limitations and abilities at his own rate, stimulated by certain circumstances and finding ways to calm himself when he comes close to losing control. It's impressive for one of his age and upbringing.”

“Upbringing?” Gellert queried and here Albus paused, reluctant until he met the mismatched gaze again.

“Brought up by the Lestranges as a foundling, a servant barely included by their youngest – Leta – and more or less abandoned by his brother except in a financial sense. He sent money to the Lestranges for Newt’s upkeep from as soon as he was able to earn a wage of his own.”

“A brother? Newton did not mention any family.”

Albus’ head tilted as he released the information like a puff of stale air, his heart rate having slowed and body calmed considerably in the time they had been talking, though feeling familiarly exasperated that Gellert thought Newt would offer such information willingly under such circumstances. “A half-brother, seven years his elder – same father who only ever cared for his firstborn son and disappeared soon after Newt was born.”

“And this brother, is he similarly gifted?”

Albus shook his head, glad that he was not condemning anyone else to Gellert’s interests, “No, Theseus is ungifted as far as I could tell. It’s my belief that Newt’s mother is the one who passed on any abilities that he may possess.”

“And where is this brother, now? Is he likely to make a claim on the boy?” the question was purely practical from Gellert’s standpoint – making sure that his attempts to own Newt would not be interrupted. Just as the bard’s troupe would have done. Albus felt somewhat glad that he could honestly tell Gellert that Theseus would most likely not prove a problem.

“No, he’s politically minded, travels the continent as an ambassador but is based in Varin and to my knowledge, hasn’t spoken to him since Newt left the Lestranges’ home four years ago, so it seems unlikely that he would reach out now.” 

Gellert nodded and broke the eye contact abruptly, prompting a jolt from Albus as he righted himself, feeling a tad lightheaded and he sat rather suddenly, settling beside Newt on the bed. He looked over the boy once more, barely glancing up as Gellert spun a door into being by which to leave, having expected it.

“Care for him, Albus, soothe him and convince him that we are not his enemies. Make sure he knows just what kind of person he had thrown his lot in with the Graverobber,” he weaved a covered tray and a bathtub filled with steaming water into being upon the floor nearby, rubbing his temples as he left the room, calling back over his shoulder as he did so, “I shan’t be gone long.” Gellert let the door click shut behind him, visible now, for the edging of golden evening sunlight illuminating its edges.

Sensing the impatience and hurrying undertone of his partner’s words, Albus sighed, waving his hand at the candles around the room, lighting those unlit and flaring the dimming ones brighter than ever. The room was plenty warm already so a fire was not needed to create a soothing atmosphere but Albus doubted that a fire would be the best thing to soothe Newt’s ravaged mind anyway. Not with his half-hysterical mumblings and the memories resurfacing. The truth was, Albus knew exactly what happened when someone tried to mess with Newt’s mind…and he did not want a repeat experience. For him or for Newt, especially not now.

Pushing those particular grim thoughts aside, Albus decided to focus upon some entirely new and honestly, more personally devastating ones.

He paused, watching Newt for some time, seeing the conflict and allowing his own to properly sink in, to not escape it and to acclimatise to the feeling as it deserved to be done so. The young man’s face was still turned into the pillow, subconsciously trying to hide himself away from a threat he likely wasn’t even currently cognizant of. As much as Albus was loath to bring him back to those fears and horrors, he didn’t doubt that Gellert would take a much less sympathetic approach when he returned should Albus leave the boy to rest now. Instead, he resorted to steeling himself and gently placing a hand upon the bard’s shoulder, feeling a slight twitch in response. Newt’s eyes did not open, and Albus sighed and spoke softly, hoping his voice would better rouse him, “Newt.”

“No.”

The single word was croaked but clear, not a plea, as Albus might have expected, but a statement; a refusal, and he felt his brows furrow in perturbance and confusion.

“No, what?”

Newt’s eyes opened and though they were red-rimmed from spilling so many tears, they too were clear, befuddled and most certainly hurt but certain…though of what, Albus, again, could not say. It was perhaps more disturbing than anger or fright might have been. Screams, tears and fears he would have understood, but this…it was utterly unnerving so soon after what had occurred, after what Albus had been an accomplice to.

“No, I don’t want you to try to ‘soothe’ me or try to convince me of anything, I think we’d both find that a bit hollow at this point, don’t you?” The words were cool and angry and though Newt didn’t try to stand or move away from where Albus was sat beside him, the boy did manoeuvre himself up against the pillows, slipping slightly with his obvious weakness and the slippery material of the bedding he was submerged in.

Albus was tempted to offer a hand but got the distinct feeling that it would not be received well, if at all. Instead, he asked, “What would you rather I said?”

“Something honest, if you can manage it.” It stung, but Albus inclined his head, all the same, acknowledging the justification behind it.

“I did not intend…any of this, Newt. That is the truth, as much as it may be difficult for you to believe.”

“You didn’t intend to sell me out to your sadistic, megalomaniac partner? You didn’t intend to hurt me or Graves? Or is it that you didn’t intend to fuck me? Hadn’t been planning to make some sort of demented claim on me for as long as I’ve known you?!” Here was the anger, the more reasonable response to the situation even if it still wasn’t quite right; Newt’s voice had risen to a shout, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, clenching into the blankets and eyes flashing bright and furious. 

“I did not intend for Gellert to find you or to become enraptured with you. I honestly had no qualms with allowing the Graverobber to leave unharmed aside from his apparent obstinacy and interest in keeping you by his side,” Albus responded calmly, earnestly before hesitating as he considered his response to the other queries; here was treacherous ground indeed. “As for my intentions towards you…I must admit that I feel much the same…intrigue that seems to draw all creatures to you. You’re of a pure and fascinating sort, Newt, and I believe this is what draws the attention of all, unfortunately, including individuals who might wish you harm.”

He did not speak Gellert’s name aloud but it was plainly interpreted as Newt’s eyes narrowed slightly even if the bard did not speak, merely continued to watch Albus with bright, curious, furious expectancy. Albus sighed as he continued, “You are gifted but I saw no call to burden you with such knowledge, I wanted you to have the freedom to make your own decisions, to not be encumbered as many youths have by the will and greed of others who wish to usurp such gifts. The Lestranges would have used you had they known, I have no doubt, and I did not want to subject you to that. I also saw that you were much more content when you were under the impression that you merely had a ‘knack’ as you referred to it, with creatures rather than magic.” Albus swallowed, leaning forward and meeting Newt’s suspicious gaze carefully, “However, I have not been entirely forthright with you concerning your origins, nor my own.”

“My…origins? What do you mean? What else haven’t you been telling me?” 

“Yes,” this part too, proved delicate and critical and Albus found himself wetting his lips with uncharacteristic nerves gnawing at him. “Well, I don’t believe that now is the time or place to address that...issue, though I swear that I shall do so when we have...a degree more privacy.”

Newt looked rightfully irritated but nodded all the same, seeming to comprehend the threat of Gellert’s far-reaching eyes and ears. He didn’t voice his understanding aloud but Albus continued, nonetheless, as if he had heard it spoken.

“Gellert and I have worked upon both separate and conjoined projects over the better part of twenty years to make the continent a safer and fairer place to live. I have focussed more upon social ties, lineages and the magical and scientific progression of things whilst Gellert has been more inclined towards politics, matters of state and the collection of...unique artefacts and individuals, such as - though arguably not comparable to – yourself.” 

“He’s enslaved countless...creatures and humans alike...he hurts and manipulates and murders for sport...how could you possibly try to rationalise something like that? I thought you were a good man, Albus,” his eyes shone bright and stung with unshed tears that burned Albus even as they remained dormant, “I thought you were sane, rational, kind – a friend, even! Turns out I must have been sorely mistaken.” 

As much as he wanted to, he could not deny his young companion’s judgement. Albus may think of Newt fondly and may well have done much for him but this...this eclipsed it all and then some. Having raped Newt so brutally in conjunction with the boy’s captor and abuser negated most all of the smaller favours he may have done the lad. It was inexcusable, sap or not.

“Newt…I’m sorry for what happened, for what I did, what I helped Gellert do, but for now – if you want to have any chance of getting out of all this relatively…intact – then you are going to have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Newt’s voice pitched higher in indignation and he did his best to kick himself back across the bed, only succeeding in slipping and sliding more on the silken material with his weak, no doubt aching limbs. The bard hissed in pain and Albus felt concern rise in him as red bloomed through bloody and vivid against the sheets, staining the boy’s thighs in gory contrast to his pallor as he was uncovered by his struggles. He was likely opening strains and tears inside him that could cause lingering damage, Albus had to try to keep him calm, prevent him from moving, but he knew that getting the boy to trust him after everything that had happened was beyond unlikely and that any further displays of magical force to still him wouldn’t go over well either.

“Newt, please, you’re hurting yourself, I know you’re angry but you need to keep still-”

But Newt wasn’t listening anymore. It was a miracle he had been so coherent and willing up until now. His breathing was spiking, huge heaves of breath rattling through his chest and his eyes wide, pupils dilated, lips parted and panting.

“Newt-” Albus was cut off with a grunt as a bare foot struck him with surprising strength in the midriff and he spent a moment or more gasping for air himself as Newt managed to grapple himself away and off the bed, low gasps of pain escaping his lips with each movement and blood trickling in unending rivulets down his body. He scrabbled back across the ground, seemingly aiming for where the door Gellert had conjured had been but Albus knew for a fact that it would not reappear until Gellert willed it to.

Having recovered enough breath to speak, Albus did so, standing from where he had sprawled on the bed and approaching Newt cautiously, one hand held out as if to calm him, though he realised it would do little good. “Newt, neither of us are leaving here until we are allowed to and as long as you are in such a state – even rightfully so – then you are only going to bring down a worse fate upon yourself.” 

Newt’s hands froze where they had been scrabbling uselessly against the smooth wood where a door once had and could again exist. He took deep, shuddering breaths, his hands sliding to lay at his sides before moving jerkily back up to wrap around himself. He seemed oblivious to his nakedness, too deep into shock that the exposure likely didn’t even register anymore past what had already _been_ exposed. 

Albus stepped forward carefully, palms out in a universally unthreatening gesture and bright blue eyes wide and earnest even if they leaked through with the sadness and guilt that plagued his heart. Newt flinched back against the blank door, chest still jerking with his laboured breaths and arms clinging to himself for some sort of stability or conveying something, Albus wasn’t sure what, but he doubted it mattered much as he simply focussed on trying to get the boy to meet his eye. Newt, of course, being the stubborn lad he was, refused to move his resolute, desolate stare from where it was boring a hole in Albus' chest. The mage followed his gaze and noticed a dark bruising love bite – courtesy of Gellert – marking his collarbone and exposed by the way his robe had slid open. His expression softened further as he pulled the starry blue material closed and offered a more genuine grimace to Newt.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me, I don’t expect that, but you do need to make a decision here, Newt. Things can get much worse for you but they can also get better,” he stepped as close as he dared, breathing the next words barely audibly into the still, heated air between them in a daring move that he wouldn’t have risked had Newt not looked so utterly wrecked...had there not been a stream of blood coating the insides of his thighs and bruises marring most of his trembling body. “There is still a chance for you to get out of this but you have to trust me, I can’t promise you won’t be hurt or that I won’t do things that may confuse or...unsettle you, but it will all be in your interests, I swear it, Newt. I will make sure that you make it somewhere safe and beyond Gellert’s influence if you only have the patience to wait and to trust me.”

He braced a weathered hand upon Newt’s shoulder and the younger man finally met his eyes, wary, wide and terrified but comprehending, nonetheless. “Can you do that, Newt?”

There was a long pause before Newt nodded softly, his body slumping as the tension leaked out of it all in one go, the boy half-collapsing against him as the fight and possibly sense too deflated his previously rigid, posture. Albus was forced to step forward to catch him so that he didn’t aggravate his injuries further by striking the floor and soon found himself with an armful of lean, abused bard, not for the first time that night.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Newt nodded numbly; eyes focussed on nothing.

Albus suspected that there was certainly worse to come for the boy and that Newt knew it, that he was only being as compliant as he was because he hadn’t the energy to fight and though it pained him, Albus decided that, for now, that was probably not the worst thing. Gellert would take anything Newt had and use it against him, it was his speciality to break in his ‘pets’ and if the boy had nothing then it couldn’t be used. Albus knew he was the best hope for Newt, that the Graverobber – no matter his intentions – would be of no real use in keeping Newt safe or away from Gellert on a long-term basis. From Albus’ experience, he was the brash sort who would take the forceful approach and muddle matters up as he had already managed to.

The Maor guided Newt over to the tub, lowering him with little resistance into the warm water even as Newt shuddered and gripped the edges of the metal tub with white-knuckled, bloodied fingers; as if he were afraid of sinking below the surface if he let go. He carefully washed the boy’s hair, working the clumps of dried release out of it but not daring to try to assist Newt in the rest of the marks left upon his body, his hands hovered at the edge, the borders of the water and consent. Granting a basic decency that Newt had previously been denied even as he lingered, not willing or able to leave the lad alone lest he give in to the temptation Albus could see thrumming his muscles and fingers, the urge to release that iron grip and let himself slide under. Albus was not about to let that happen, could not bear the added weight upon his conscience nor upon his heavy, scarred heart, as if he were afraid of sinking below the surface if he let go.

Newt did not release his grip until the very moment that the door behind him reformed and clicked open, allowing inside the source of both men’s disquiet.

Beautiful, mismatched eyes roved over the scene before him with familiar superiority as Albus was forced to grasp Newt firmly by the shoulders, holding the lad up as he tried to sink beneath the surface of the water, eyes pressed tight shut and leaking rivulets of water down his face joining the greater mass below. “No, please…”

“Shh, it’s alright, come on, let’s get you up…” Albus soothed, tone tense and he brushed a hand over the soft, wet hair at the nape of Newt’s neck, pulling his shuddering frame closer and up until Newt’s feet were slipping and sliding in an attempt to kick himself back from the older man. Albus held him tighter, hushing him quietly but firmly and managing to manoeuvre him from the bathtub, pressing his bearded chin into the bard’s shoulder and murmuring fiercely into his ear. “Play along for just a little while and I can help you, come on now, Newt, be brave just a while longer.”

Another nod, this one pressing the bard’s face tighter into Albus’ robed shoulder for just a moment before he drew back, managing to barely control his violent flinching response when Gellert’s hand landed upon his shoulder from behind, a dark robe soon following. Though perhaps ‘robe’ was a rather generous word for the slip of silken material that Gellert enfolded Newt in. It was short-sleeved and barely covered the tops of his thighs, tying around his waist loosely and exposing a great deal of pale, scarred skin that contrasted all the more starkly with the dark material. It was a token, really, something that gave the vaguest illusion of protection, an embellishment if anything – the way Gellert often liked to dress up those he saw as his. The stitched silver dragon on the back of the robe accented that much quite clearly. The bard’s shudders subsided just a little even in the warm air of the room.

“How’s our little Ræv?” 

Albus knew the question was aimed at the bard even as the Maor answered it for him, doubting that the young man was capable of an answer that would appease Gellert. “Tired, I don’t doubt. I think what he needs now is some rest, sustenance and quiet.”

Gellert hummed in absent agreeance as he stepped around to examine the bard, standing beside where Albus knelt by the boy and tipping Newt’s face up, cupping his cheek and chin so that he could look deeper into those sea-stained depths. Newt looked back, gaze glazed and unfathomable, even, it seemed, to Gellert, and Albus inwardly cringed as he saw how Gellert’s eyes narrowed at that, his grip tightening momentarily before he released it entirely, almost jerking Newt’s head back with the movement. Newt let out a single breath, coming mostly steady but clear which was a wonder considering the earlier abuse to his throat.

“You might want to go check on your tower lest the Graverobber live up to his reputation by looting and possibly torching the place. Who knows, you might even stand a chance of apprehending him if you hurry, that would certainly be a mark in your favour after your recent missteps.”

Albus’ eyes shot to Gellert’s, worry gnawing at him as he realised the truth of his caution – he certainly wouldn’t put it past the criminal to do so, but he also knew a diversion tactic when he heard one. Though keeping Gellert happy by potentially capturing the Graverobber would be another step toward placating him and convincing his partner of his utter loyalty. He needed Gellert to believe the best of him if he were to arrange the escape of two of his ‘pets’ from within the very heart of Nurmengard with minimal suspicion upon himself; he may not agree with everything that Gellert did, but that did not mean that he wanted to leave his side. It just meant that it sometimes required a bit of careful manoeuvring and plotting to maintain an equilibrium between his own selfish desires and what he knew to be right. 

However, his concern for his sanctuary, belongings, experiments and position was compiled to breaking point as Gellert added, “I promise I won’t have any more fun with our fierce bard until you return. I’d wager your prognosis was correct. He is looking a tad peaky.”

“Very well,” Albus sighed at the understatement but nodded all the same. It would not take him long to portal back to the tower and check over his belongings and possibly detain the Graverobber to win a degree of Gellert’s favour back. He wasn’t fool enough to think that Newt would be entirely safe in the meantime, but he also recognised the look on Gellert’s face as being one of begrudging acceptance – he realised that Newt needed some time to recover before his games began again.

Albus had to trust that he could complete his task before Gellert’s patience wore thin and he broke the bard for good. 

It was a slim hope indeed, thought Albus, as he watched Gellert guide Newt from the room, one arm wrapped possessively around his waist and the other maintaining a firm grip on his scarred shoulder. Newt gave Albus some hope however as he saw that though Newt was tense and trembling slightly in Gellert’s grip, he walked as evenly as he was able, only a slight stumbling limp affecting his step and Albus could not help but wince at the sight. 

As the bard was towed from the room, he saw Newt’s gaze flicker back to his momentarily and words were mouthed in his direction. And though the distance may have distorted the meaning, Albus was fairly certain that Newt had uttered one silent plea

“Don’t hurt him.”

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Newt blinked slowly through each step, each burst of pain that imploded white-hot pressure points of pain behind his eyes. His arse was aching abysmally and his insides felt as if they had been churned up and stripped from him along with his dignity -- whatever little of it he had left, Newt pondered dully as he was guided down a familiarly wood-panelled and red-hued hallway. He kept his steps as small as he could manage whilst still managing to keep up with wherever he was being led. He didn’t want to go anywhere with Grindelwald, of course he didn’t, but at this point, he knew that running or even attempting to would get him precisely nowhere except hurt and humiliated further. Probably dragging some innocent creatures into the mess with him to boot. No, now was not the time to fight or to run, he hadn’t the energy or the inclination even as Grindelwald’s touch repelled him more than he could say. He almost preferred it to Albus’, however, at least there was no clear betrayal there; no aspersions of honesty to be dealt with. At the very least, Grindelwald was more or less clear in his intent. Even as depraved as it was.

The bard let himself drift until Grindelwald opened another door, pulling him through it and into a tiled room that bore an unnerving resemblance to the bathhouse in its theme, temperature and décor but only held one small pool in the corner, green foliage edging the windowsill. The most striking aspect of the room, however, was the enormous gold-gilt cage that was hung from the ceiling, the bottom mere inches above the ground and only a foot or so from a bed and another offshoot of familiar vines. The green tendrils wrapped the dome of bars that formed the roof of the cage and trailed down with them to the solid metal base which was, contradictorily thoughtfully, lined with a plush red cushion. Newt stared at it for some time, Grindelwald standing beside him and watching the bard’s reaction carefully and it took some moments more before it dawned on Newt that the cage was his intended destination; that he was going to quite literally cage Newt like some sort of pet or spectacle. It somehow disgusted him more than anything else, the very idea that he was going to be treated like a caged beast, that he would suffer a similar indignity to the ones often forced upon the creature folk he’d known in his life. 

And for that, he fought, he twisted away from Grindelwald, he kicked and flailed and thrashed as Grindelwald manhandled him easily – appallingly easy – as blood and water slicked the tiles beneath Newt’s bare feet and he slipped once more, straight into the mage’s waiting arms as he dragged the bard forward. 

“Hush now, my pretty bard, you’ll be perfectly safe and warm and won’t need worry about the interference of others,” Newt let out a furious scream, bucking and trying to brace himself against the edges of the cage doorway as he was shoved towards it and Grindelwald just sighed, “This is for your own good.”

“Let GO of me!” Newt snarled, throwing an elbow back into Grindelwald’s ribs and the man hissed before grabbing a hold of the back of Newt’s head and ramming it forward into the bars, stunning him long enough to push the bard in and slamming the gate shut behind him. Newt turned sooner than his vision was clearing and threw himself at the bars, shaking them and trying to find a weak spot he knew wouldn’t be there.

“Good to see you’re still in such high spirits, little one. I do hope they fade so that you might rest easy, Albus was right, you certainly seem to be needing a good long nap.” The tone was as sardonic as ever and Newt barely repressed the hiss that left his gritted teeth even as he sagged against the bars, hands clutching them loosely but with some insignificant degree of hope left in the motion.

“Why bother bringing me back? Why bother with any of this?” Newt shot back and Grindelwald sighed yet again, patiently this time, before coming forward to stand directly before the cage, one arm folded at his back and the other reaching up to brush against where Newt’s fingers clasped the bars. The bard tried to snatch the offended hand back immediately but was stopped short as Grindelwald’s hand lashed out to snatch his wrist in mid-air, pulling the bard closer until they were almost nose to nose.

“I’ve told you, sweetness, I collect the rare and the beautiful and you are most certainly both. You intrigue me, and you shall be staying here with Albus and myself for as long as I see fit. I did not lie to you when I said that I would provide training, an education and creature comforts – this is for your safety as much as it is your confinement.” His head tilted and eclipsed eyes bored deep into Newt as Grindelwald’s lips pursed, “Behave better in future and you shall be rewarded accordingly,” his gaze darkened and his grip on Newt’s wrist tightened, “But disobey and you will suffer, I promise you that, bard, even my tolerance for Albus' whims has its limits. He may wish that I take a...softer approach with you due to some misguided nostalgia, but I know that a firmer hand is often needed to hone the roughest materials into something truly special.”

“I’m not letting you mould me into anything,” Newt retorted firmly, the anger that much easier to grasp onto than the pain or fear, even if it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He loathed being separated from everything he knew and cared for under some deluded pretence of betterment or care. “What did you do with my friends?”

“Oh, you mean the lockpicking twig and the disposable magic by-product you accidentally created? I’m sure you’re probably just delighted to know that I have no idea, most likely they are still in Albus' tower unless the Graverobber got away with them or perhaps burnt the unsightly thing to the ground, I really couldn’t say,” he spoke offhandedly and whilst his callous words clenched a fist of anxiety tighter around Newt’s gut, he felt a touch of relief that Grindelwald did not have them too. Hopefully, providing Graves was in a state to do so, they might be away from there and safe. But thinking of Graves had Newt feeling queasy all over again, the fear for yet another life that had grown dear to him in such a short time itching and clawing at him like the small creatures themselves did.

It didn’t seem fair that Graves should suffer like this because of his affiliation with Newt. With any luck and a good dose of self-preservation, Graves should be well on his way to safety by now – wherever that was for him – and probably a trip to a healer wouldn’t go amiss either judging by the wounds he had collected in their brief time together. It was all rather perplexing in all honesty, Newt didn’t really want to dwell on it, but dwelling seemed all he was able to do now that he was trapped within a glorified birdcage with only his own thoughts for company. Not a healthy place to be right now, he would venture.

Though, not quite alone, Newt realised, as Grindelwald was still standing there, even if he had released his grip on Newt’s arm. He was regarding the bard curiously and Newt found himself recoiling, moving to the other side of the cage and eying Grindelwald like the wary animal he was being treated as.

A small, ornate bowl carved into the shape of a leaf appeared before Newt in the cage, filled with water, the boy eyed it for only a few seconds before deciding that with the effect of the sap so recently played upon both of them, it was unlikely that the man would try drugging him again so soon. There was part f him that didn’t care even if it was, the cold, numb part that was leaking slowly into the rest of his senses. He picked up the bowl and drank deeply, feeling the way it soothed his burning throat and washed a little of the acrid tastes from his mouth. It refilled itself the moment he lowered it from his lips and he raised it again immediately, drinking his fill greedily, feeling relief of a small kind run through him as the bowl refilled a third and fourth time. the only thing that stopped him taking more was his churning stomach’s complaints at being overtaxed so quickly after starvation, sickness and abuse. 

“There now, isn’t that better?” Grindelwald said in a tone that Newt supposed was meant to be soothing, his eyes roving over Newt with renewed vigour. Newt lowered the bowl slowly, licking the stray drops that threatened to run down his chin and avoiding looking at Grindelwald directly but thinking of Albus’ earlier words he nodded very slightly. He didn’t trust Albus but he had to admit that the man certainly knew Grindelwald’s temperament better than Newt did and though he thoroughly doubted the Maor's intentions, he did somewhat trust his judgement still, at least when it came to circumstances such as this. Absurd as that instinct may be.

Newt could see the sense in playing at acquiescence despite his recent flare of aggression, and Grindelwald seemed to have taken it in his stride - accepted it, even, and Newt wasn’t sure he could take the risk of incurring the mage's idea of punishment again. He was tired, he was weak and hurting and just plain _scared_. He found himself wanting to be safe and warm and comfortable more than almost anything right now and he had almost two of those things despite the pain and captivity. Despite the humiliation and depravity of the whole situation.

It was difficult to keep fighting something when you didn’t know if it would ever end. There was no clarity here, no semblance of sanity or schedule or an idea of where any help might be coming from. Or if it even was. He was alone in this and that was somehow easier to bear than the possibilities that Albus hinted at and Graves represented. Relying upon himself and the very real possibility that this was his life now and that he might be stuck here indefinitely was somehow easier to bear than the possibility of false hope.

At this stage, Newt wasn’t sure if he could cope with another betrayal, another let-down -- in fact, he _knew_ he couldn’t. So he curled into a ball on the cushion at the bottom of the cage, not for warmth – the room was plenty warm already – but because he didn’t want to look at anything anymore. Didn’t want to feel or see or say anything, didn’t want to wait. He was content to just float in the nothingness the ball and his closed eyes granted. To exist without existing, to be without and be content in it. It was far easier this way, this world behind closed lids and shuttered ears. He didn’t have to pretend anything or figure anything out or play to expectations or hope. It was empty and it was easy. Simple, even. And for that, Newt relished the numbness that encased him with the finality of dark waters slipping over one’s head.


	15. NOT A CHAPTER, more of an announcement.

I'm sorry to say that though I have many ideas for this fic and where it would have gone, I have lost all enthusiasm for it and haven't really got the time to continue it regardless of that fact.

I wanted to thank everyone for their continued support with this fic and my writing and to apologise for any disappointment this may cause anyone. I might regain interest, inspiration or time to rekindle this at some point but I don't want to make promises I can't keep here so please don't hold your breath. 

Anyways, sorry for the disappointment again and thank you to Vindsie for being my amazing and ever-so-patient beta thus far. You're a star. 

Additional thank you to my regular reviewers such as Potatufu , None_of_the_Above , Kallse , Demondance , Keepingtimetimetime , AsmodeusXander , FourAlignments , The_Pied_Piper and many more. 

Additional, any requests or prompts for fics - long or as short as you like - would be greatly appreciated. 

I am willing to write for the following fandoms (suggest others if you like) 

Fantastic beasts and where to find them

Harry potter

Hannibal

BBC Merlin

BBC Sherlock

Dracula 2020 (TV) 

The Witcher (TV) 

Once upon a time

Lucifer (TV)

Gotham (TV) 


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